


The Silence in Between

by LunaStories



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beta Peter Hale, Blood Magic, Cursed Stiles Stilinski, Curses, Denial of Feelings, Full Shift Werewolves, Lore - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Masks, Mates, Mutual Pining, Shaman Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Stiles is still a little shit, Teasing, Temporary Character Death, UST, mute!Stiles, set in olden day times, they are both in denial tbh, they worship a moon goddess, warnings for Kate Argent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-19 16:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14876942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStories/pseuds/LunaStories
Summary: When Stiles murders a man in order to heal his best friend, Scott, his choice leads him down a dark path. He unwillingly becomes one of the Cursed. After being cast out by his village, Stiles is saved by a pack of werewolves and adopted as one of their own. But Stiles is running out of time. With the help of Peter, a man of equally dubious morals, he must figure out a way to break his curse before it consumes him.~~His father used to tell him tales of the woods, the moon Goddess, and her devotion to the shamans of their world. He told Stiles that he was blessed with the powers and blessings of a kind Goddess, his eyes amber gold and mischievous.He wondered, as he was dragged, blinking blearily and blood dripping into his face, if she would cry seeing him like this.Or maybe, this was her punishment.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to my first Steter fic! Yes this is my first and it's 44k x'D (It's also the longest fic I've ever written AHHHHH) I'm a firm believer of go bigger go home. I've really loved this ship and wanted to try writing these two morally dubious boys. This is an entry for the 14k steter reverse bang and this fic was inspired by the awesome art my artist valiantbarnes drew [here](http://bisexualsteveistheonlysteve.tumblr.com/post/174881517145/its-steterreversebang-time-motherfkers-i-was). We did it my friend, thank you so much for the wonderful art. I'm so glad you enjoyed the fic and I hope I did your art justice!
> 
> I would like to thank my beta [Yesterday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday) for editing my fic and making it better! Her kind words kept me going and she was truly a joy to work with :)
> 
> Thank you to the mods who took the time to create this awesome and fun event. We'd be lost without your infinite patience.
> 
> Thank you so much to my good friend/writing buddy, Dragon, who kept my spirits up and also helped tidy up my summary (Seriously I'd be lost without her). Thanks for staying up with me as I struggled to format the fic T^T You're a life saver omg.
> 
> This is the longest thing I've ever written and it was a work of passion. I loved this universe and I was so sad when I finally finished the fic. The upload date for this was on my birthday June 8th and this is a present for you guys as much as it is for me! I had so much fun with this fic and I hope you guys will enjoy it.

The moon was high in the sky tonight.

His father used to tell him tales of the woods, the moon Goddess, and her devotion to the shamans of their world. He told Stiles that he was blessed with the powers and blessings of a kind Goddess, his eyes amber gold and mischievous.

He wondered, as he was dragged, blinking blearily and blood dripping into his face, if she would cry seeing him like this.

Or maybe, this was her punishment.

“Let’s just drop him here. He’s heavier than he looks.” He heard guard one grunt out, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

Rude. He was made of skin and bones, Scott was always trying to feed him.

_Scott…_

The thought of the man, his best friend, brought a fierce feeling of triumph within him. If he died, then at the very least, it would be worth it. Scott would live another day and many more because of his efforts.

He didn’t regret what he did, he only wished there had been a way for him to wish his father one last goodbye.

“But the elders told us to dump him in the ravine.”

“Well it’s not like they’ll know. He’s going to die anyways, doesn’t matter if it’s over a cliff or left to rot in the forest.”

Stiles sighed, coughing when he choked on the blood steadily filling his mouth. They’d really beaten the crap out of him.

As if his pain was an indicator of imminent death, they both came to a consensus and dropped him on the ground.

“Leave him here, let the wolves have him.”

They walked away, the crunch of leaves fading into the distance as Stiles laid on his side. His chest rose and fell feebly, his breathing hindered by the mask on his face.

It used to be something that comforted him, the sacred mask that all shamans wore as a sign of respect to the Goddess. Now, as he lay there dying, he could only think of how fitting it was that he would die wearing it. As if she was looking down at him, judging him for his betrayal.

He couldn’t breathe, his gasps shallow and weak.

Would praying to the moon Goddess change his fate? Or had she also forsaken him? He was too tired to try and a part of him didn’t want to live with the weight of his sin.

The last thing he saw, before he let the pain take him, was a pair of cold blue eyes and the shadowy shape of a large wolf.


	2. You

The wolf stepped forward, his muzzle raised and slightly open, breathing in the scent of old magic and power in the air.

A smaller sandy colored wolf ran past him and he let out a growl, warning her to stay back. She whined and growled back, snapping her jaw at him before relenting.

He shook his head and gave a short huff of sound, enough for her to swat her tail at him defiantly before running back to the Hales. They needed to report back.

Against his better judgement, Peter crept closer, his head pressed close to the forest floor and haunches raised as he approached the shaman wearing the skull of a ram. It seemed to glow dully in the moonlight, reflecting smears of red on the ivory skull.

The man was obviously injured, his skin bruised and smeared with both blood and dirt. He was half naked, the only thing on him a pair of trousers and the mask.

Usually shamans stayed far from their side of the woods. They were creatures of the forest and shamans were protectors of nature. As a general rule they respected each other and kept to themselves. Shamans were separate from werewolves, only stepping in when they were endangered.

To harm a shaman to such an extent was unheard of.

It made Peter wary; what had this man done to deserve such treatment?

The man was still, and only twitched slightly when Peter’s wet nose touched his chest. The wolf breathed in deeply, his jaw held open loosely as he tasted the scent of fear and resignation on the man. Despite the acrid taste, there were some undertones to his scent that drew Peter closer. It tasted warm, like the tingle of electricity and the faint earthy dusting of summer.

It wasn’t until the man turned his head away, an instinctive reaction, that Peter realized he’d been nuzzling his throat in a daze. Pulling back, startled, Peter growled low in his throat as he forced himself to walk back to the treeline.

It had been years since he’d lost control like that, but something in him had whined and pleaded, urging him to try and comfort the shaman.

It unsettled him, and he resolved to sit on his haunches, eyes watchful and focused until Talia came to give the final verdict. His tail swished back and forth a few times before curling around his paws.

He didn’t move from the spot until he heard the sound of crushed undergrowth approach. Peter stood, shaking his fur quickly to get rid of his tense muscles as he turned to brush his muzzle against Talia’s, greeting her.

They both quickly shifted out of their furs, standing tall and unabashedly naked under the moonlight.

“Where’s Cora?” Peter asked, curious seeing as Talia was alone.

“I told her to stay at the cabins. She wasn’t too happy with you ordering her around.” Talia’s blood red eyes were trained on him, before moving over to give a cursory sweep of the man.

Stepping closer, Peter didn’t stop her, though his hand did twitch as if to pull her back. They didn’t know anything about this shaman. For all they knew, this could be a trap.

Talia tilted her head back, breathing in deep as she scented the air.

“He’s hurt.” Her brow furrowed in concern as she knelt by the man, putting a careful hand on him and draining his pain. Tendrils of black flowed up her arm, the sight of them familiar to Peter.

“We don’t know anything about him.” Peter murmured, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. His reaction to the shaman earlier made him wary, his senses on high alert and practically blaring warning signs at him. “We should kill him before he brings us more trouble.”

“Peter.” Talia’s words were sharp, her eyes quickly glancing at him before gentling at the sight of the injured man. She stood, turning to Peter and taking in his wary stance. “He may be an indication of a greater evil out there. Something did this to him. It would be wise of us to figure out what or who.”

Peter closed his eyes tightly, cursing his position as the Second to Talia. Well, if this man proved to be dangerous, he’d have to dispose of him discreetly. Sighing, he bent down and picked him up, tucking him close with an arm around his shoulders and under both knees.

Without another word, Talia shifted into a wolf, throwing her head back and letting loose a howl as she raced through the woods. The Hales would be ready for them when they arrived.

“Stiles…what are you doing?”

Scott’s voice was weak, his breathing shallow and pained.

Stiles didn’t look up from where he was smearing marks onto his best friend’s skin, his hands shaky from adrenaline.

“It’ll be okay Scott.” Stiles murmured, his eyes darting at the door to their cabin every few moments. He had to do this before they stopped him.

“Wh-what is this?” Scott lifted up an arm, staring at the indecipherable swirls and words on his skin. It felt warm, and as he watched it drip down his arm, he turned horrified eyes to Stiles. “Stiles, what did you do?”

Stiles’ mouth pressed into a grim line and he refused to meet his friend’s eyes.

“What I had to.”

“Stiles, this is blood.” Scott spoke, panicked as he coughed a few times, choking on air. He tried to sit up but Stiles firmly pushed him back down, patting his chest a few times.

Stiles hands fluttered over his for a moment, the gentleness in them a stark contrast to the blood that smeared both of their skins.

“After this, after I’m done you won’t have to suffer ever again. You’ll be healthy.” Stiles tried to reassure him, even as Scott’s eyes watered and his words slipped out weakly.

“Stiles…I’m fine.”

“You’re not!” Stiles finally exploded with emotion, his arms flailing wildly as he dragged bloodied fingers through his hair. He ignored the traces of blood that marked his shaman mask, too far gone to care. “Scott, you and I both know that your asthma is getting worse and at this rate, you’ll die! Winter is almost here and with it comes sicknesses. Even your mom knows that you won’t survive. She’s looking for herbal remedies but there’s only so much she can do.”

Scott shrugged as best as he could, looking at the wall of the cabin instead of Stiles. He closed his eyes tight, unsure if the tears were from his physical pain or from his fear of death.

“If I die then that will be my fate. At least I won’t be a burden to Mom or you anymore.” He was trying so hard to be brave, yet Stiles could tell he was scared.

“You were never a burden,” Stiles rasped out, his eyes tearing up as he held onto Scott’s hand. “Scott, you’re the reason why I chose to become a shaman. What is the point of all this power if I can’t use it to save my brother?” Before he could protest, Stiles pressed fingers to his eyelids. A wave of calm washed over him and he sighed, relaxing.

“Shhh it’s okay. Just sleep. Soon it will all be over.” Stiles reached over to the body hidden next to him, the man long dead and his throat slit. His eyes were gaping open, wide and terrified, the last expression he ever had. Stiles dipped his fingers into the wound, lathering his hand in the blood.

Scott’s eyes were barely open, a sudden sense of sleepiness filling him. Without a doubt, this was one of Stiles’ spells. He tried to focus as Stiles finished marking up his chest. He felt Stiles press his hand onto his rib cage, leaving behind a handprint of blood and herbs. A burst of light filled the barely illuminated room and he could hear Stiles chanting in the language of their Goddess.

Scott let his eyes fall closed, the crackling of the fireplace and the bite of the cold night a stark contrast. As he slipped away, healthier than he had in years, he felt a pervasive sense of loss at Stiles last words.

“The Goddess has always been fair. A life for a life. My magic will pay the price. It’ll be alright brother…we’ll be alright.”

When Scott later woke up alone, heart pounding and sob tearing out of his throat, he knew things would never be the same.

He wouldn’t see Stiles again for many moons.

Peter and Talia sat in their infirmary room, one calm and one bored. A few other members of the family would come in and out to sneak a peek at the newcomer, but most of them left soon after. There was nothing to do but wait, and though the man was interesting with his ram skull mask and injured appearance, it was still a waste of time sitting here watching him breathe.

Peter yawned loudly, giving his sister a languid look when she shot an annoyed glare at him. This was the fifth time he’d done so, mostly to irritate his sister but partially so that he wouldn’t become entranced in the smell of the shaman. There was something about him that made Peter’s wolf pay rapt attention, his wilder side’s intent focus amusing but worrying.

If this persisted he would have to ask Talia, or even worse, Deaton for guidance. The druid was cryptic at best, even less helpful than shamans. He’d much rather keep this to himself, as long as it didn’t affect anyone but him.

“I still think we should just kill him.” Peter smirked at the exasperation on Talia’s face. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this argument either. It had been a long few hours of waiting.

“Peter.” Her tone was admonishing and Peter rolled his eyes, already anticipating her words. Blah blah blah, something about not killing innocents, something else about being noble and living up to the Hale name. Peter could care less. He was here to protect the pack, no matter the collateral damage and this man reeked of danger. Quite literally too, he’s sure his sister has also caught on to the fact that the majority of the blood on the shaman wasn’t just his.

There could be many reasons for that, but the most likely one was that the shaman had turned to dark magic. It was something they all feared, the powerful light of the shamans dulled into something ugly and greedy. Often times, shamans turned to dark magic because they were lured by the promise of power. Blood magic was strong and at the cost of other innocent lives, there was an unlimited well of ingredients.

Either way, Peter would be ready.

His head jerked up, an instinctive reaction as his wolf whined and his eyes sharpened on the shaman.

He was still. Too quiet in fact. Talia was still lecturing him and he ignored her in favor of standing up and approaching the man.

He padded over silently, eyes narrowed as he watched the hitch in the man’s breathing when he spoke.

“You know, we can tell you’re awake.”

At his words, Talia stopped, blessedly silent as she too stood by the bedside.

There was a brief moment of quiet when suddenly the man tensed and shot up, feet hitting the ground and running towards the door. Peter smirked, anticipating the reaction as he stood in the shaman’s way. He locked him in an embrace, wrestling him back to the bed even as the man kicked and scratched at him. Still, he did not make a sound and the mask did not fall off despite their struggle.

Vaguely, he could hear Talia trying to calm the man down, speaking in low even tones and repeating her words.

“We’re not here to hurt you. We just wanted to make sure you were okay. If you want to leave you can, but we would feel better if you healed completely before doing so.”

Eventually, he calmed down, his heavy breathing rasping behind the mask the only sound in the room. His heart was racing, a small tremor working it’s way through his body as he gave up with a tiny huff of breath and sat down on the bed.

He lifted his head, just enough so that they could see his fiery glare. Peter, who up until then stood very close to the shaman in case he tried to run again, stepped back. The man’s eyes were stunning, the amber gold still beautiful despite the red and puffy eyes the man had. They were ringed with exhaustion and dark bags. His eyes didn’t glow, one of the traits of a shaman, and that in itself was alarming.

Crossing his arms and squinting at them, he was the very image of an irritated man that demanded answers.

Talia stepped up before he could open his mouth and probably say something he would regret. His mind was currently at war with itself. He wanted to rip the shaman’s throat out, the man’s sudden manic episode triggering his desire to rid them of the potential danger. Still, a smaller, more instinctual part of him was horribly distracted by the shaman’s smell and the feelings of panic he were exuding. His wolf howled, clawing and pacing within him. To comfort or to kill? He didn’t know which one he would choose and that unnerved him.

“My name is Talia, I am the Alpha of the Hale pack. This is my Second, Peter.”

The man’s eyes widened at the introduction before relaxing his stance, his arms falling down to his lap. He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and there was a minute of awkward silence as they waited for him to introduce himself.

Oddly enough, Peter could hear the hitches in his breath, as if he was trying to speak and couldn’t. It sounded uncomfortable, like the man was choking. Peter met his panicked eyes and without preamble the man clawed at his mask, trying to rip it off

His breathing was erratic, growing wetter as tears fell from his terrified eyes. His nails ripped into his skin where the edges of the mask touched. Blood dripped down and mixed with the dirt already on his body. Peter and Talia shot each other an alarmed look before she tried to speak to the shaman.

“Are you okay?” Talia asked, worry tinged her voice as she reached a hand out. However, before she could, the shaman slammed his fists down onto the bed, the movement startling both of them. Peter had shoved Talia behind him, baring his teeth at the man, a low growl working it’s way out of his throat.

The man scrambled back on the bed, his breathing loud and pained. A confused whine broke out of him, the first sound they’d heard from him. He seemed to pause in shock at that, visibly trying again to recreate the sound but failing. In frustration, he continued clawing at his face.

It wasn’t until he turned to the wall and started banging his head on it, as if trying to break the mask that Peter stepped in and restrained him.

“Calm down,” Peter gritted out between sharp teeth as his senses went haywire. The man was emitting all sorts of distress signals and everything in him was screaming to make it stop. “You’re hurting yourself.”

The man huffed a breath at that, an imitation of a scoff as he let himself relax, falling into Peter’s embrace. The wolf gladly took his weight, gently sitting him back down onto the bed.

Talia shot him a weird look at that. Peter wasn’t known for his gentleness and kind treatment of suspicious individuals. Peter didn’t meet her glance, instead kneeling down and ripping a piece of the blanket to start mopping some of the blood that coated the shaman from his self inflicted injuries.

The man hung his head, tears dropping out of the holes in his mask as he cried silently. Clearly something had caused him to become mute, something which was just as much a surprise to him as it was to the Hales. The mask also wasn’t coming off. They didn’t encounter a lot of shamans, but even they knew that wasn’t normal.

Peter didn’t notice when Talia left and returned with a basin of warm water, but he took it gratefully. He cleared his throat, repressing his urge to clean the man himself.

“Here.” He handed the shaman a towel, the man hesitating for a moment before taking it and using the water in the basin to wipe himself down.

Talia stepped outside to address the worried Hales that had gathered near the doorway when they heard the commotion.

Derek handed her one of his shirts and she took it gratefully. The poor shaman was horribly bruised and all the wolves could quite literally smell his pain. The bruises indicated possible cracked bones and ruptured organs, and with how hard he had fought them before, any injuries were probably worse by now.

“You might want to wear something. It’s getting cold.”

He took it with a nod of thanks. After he washed himself as much as he could, he pulled on the shirt. Peter noticed that once all the grime and blood was washed away, the man was actually fairly pale. Though that could be attributed to possible blood loss from his injuries. Even now, his arms had marks on them that bled sluggishly, as if someone had attacked him with a knife and he’d raised up his arms to defend himself.

Peter’s eyes lingered on the tattoos adorning his collarbone, the marks reminiscent of phases of the moon. They were all a dark color, the only exception being the full moon in the center which was a bright red. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but coupled with the red colored streaks across the eyes of his mask and the hints of it continuing on the skin of his face, the man made an imposing picture. Even after wiping down the mask, the red marks did not disappear, as if they were ingrained into the skull. The horns were also smeared with red.

It wasn’t Stiles’ blood, the smell of it foreign. Shaman masks were usually kept clean and ivory white…these marks seemed to be held there by magic. Perhaps it had something to do with Stiles’ condition.

Talia took a deep breath before speaking, sitting down in one of the chairs nearby in exhaustion. Peter followed, standing next to her and for once somber in his silence.

“We don’t know what you’ve been through, shaman, but we do not turn away those who need help. I only ask you one thing, have you ever hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it? Lie and we will know. I can not in good conscience allow you to stay if you pose a threat to my pack.”

Stiles paused for a moment, staring down at his hands. Finally, he shook his head and his heartbeat remained steady, to their relief.

“Then all I ask is that you respect our rules and use our den as a place to heal. Shamans have always been our protectors and we extend the same courtesy to you.”

The man nodded, meeting her eyes with something tentatively grateful in his gaze.

“Peter will tend to your wounds. Once you get a good night’s rest I’ll introduce you to the rest of the pack.”

Peter glared at his sister, though she hid her smirk well from the shaman who turned his head to narrow his eyes at Peter. It was just like her to volunteer him as the caretaker.

He grumbled a little but it was just for show, after all, this would satisfy his urge to nurse the man back to health. His wolf had been growling and whining at him for a while now, and though he’d tried his best to ruthlessly beat down his instincts, parts of it still leaked through.

He reached for the bandages in the drawer next to the bedside, bringing out the little jar of paste they rarely used. Most of them were werewolves and their human members did get their fair share of scrapes and bruises running with wolves but they were hardy. The infirmary room was mostly used as a resting spot for the werewolves to bleed in peace before they healed. In short, nobody actually used the room for its actual purpose.

The shaman was still sitting at the end of the bed, though this time he was looking around, almost twitching in his need to move and fidget.

Sighing heavily, Peter walked over to the man before kneeling down on one knee in front of him. He reached a hand out for the man’s arms but was stopped, the shaman insistently tugging at the bandages and then pointing to himself instead.

“You can’t wrap your arms by yourself.” Peter responded dryly at the man’s implied request. The man glared at him through the mask as if in challenge. Peter rolled his eyes, exasperated, though the fierce stubbornness of the man appealed to him greatly. “Look, I was told by my alpha to fix you up so just let me do this and we can both part amicably.”

They glared at each other for a long moment before the man gave up with an irritated huff. He stretched his arms out and looked off to the side, as if he was doing Peter a huge favor by allowing him this.

This man was such a little shit, at the very least having him around would entertain Peter for a while.

He took the man’s arms carefully, distinctly aware of the fragility of humans, using one hand to smear the salve onto his wounds the other to start wrapping the bandages.

“Talia is a bit of a bleeding heart when it comes to saving people, so it leaves me to ask you the hard questions.”

The man tensed up at that, and his head quickly turned back to look down at Peter.

“Clearly someone or something did this to you.” Peter continued speaking as he wrapped the arms slowly. He paused and looked up, meeting the man’s eyes. Peter knew his own were hard and unyielding, demanding an answer. His wolf was the one that felt drawn to the shaman but he still didn’t trust this stranger enough to completely relax. “I don’t need to know why or how, just tell me, will there be people coming after you? Will my pack have to fight for you?”

The man quickly shook his head, the mask still staying steady despite the movement. He grabbed Peter’s hand and the wolf tensed, ready to fight. The shaman shakily tracing a letter into the palm of his hand. It took a moment for Peter to understand but the vernacular was that of the old language, the ones spoken only by shamans and the Goddess. Luckily, Peter was a very persuasive person and had managed to procure texts that taught him that very language.

It was interesting to him, that the man didn’t seem to know the common language. Peter suspected he was from one of the isolated tribes, the ones that still practiced the old ways and didn’t hesitate to cast out those they viewed as outsiders. Perhaps the man was merely a victim of circumstance.

Peter mouthed the word to himself.

_Dead._

“Hm, well in the condition we found you in, it’s not surprising they would assume you dead. At least we won’t have to worry about them looking for you to finish the job.”

The man nodded and just as he relaxed, Peter’s grip tightened on the shaman’s arms, knowing he was digging into his wounds a little by the wince he couldn’t hide.

“Know that if you harm my pack, I will hurt you in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.”

The man shuddered at the truth in those words, tensing up again in fear even as he gave Peter a defiant look.

He grabbed the wolf’s hand again, writing rapidly with his index finger. It was hard for Peter to keep up, but he somehow managed.

His words essentially amounted to:

_I didn’t ask to be saved. You should have left me there._

Peter frowned at that, picking up the man’s other arm and going through the motions of bandaging him with the salve.

“Trust me, I wanted to.”

Instead of being offended, like Peter had anticipated, the man only tilted his head slightly and regarded him with morbid fascination.

He traced words into Peter’s palm again, the light ticklish sensation giving him involuntary chills.

_Then why didn’t you?_

Peter let out an amused huff of laughter at that, the mirth and proud resignation clear when he met the shaman’s own weary eyes.

“Because apparently, that’s not the Hale way.”

The man seemed to be deep in thought and after a few more quiet moments, Peter finished up the bandaging.

“That should hold for now, we’ll call Deaton tomorrow so he can look you over and make sure there’s no internal bleeding.”

He stood up to leave but was stopped by a hand on his arm. The man looked up at him, the determination in his golden eyes beautiful and enchanting.

He grabbed Peter’s hand and like the times before, spelled out his words.

_My name is Stiles. I am now one of the Cursed._

Peter couldn’t stop the startled breath he let out at that, the eyes focused on him sad and fearful.

He pulled his hand away, mind spinning as he left the room quickly.

“I’ll let you rest now. Good night.”

He exited the room and he could feel Stiles’ heavy gaze on him as he left. Peter closed the door behind him, leaning heavily against it as he let out a chuckle of disbelief.

Stiles was one of the cursed. They were a myth and yet…Peter remembered his inability to speak, the red bloodied marks as he clawed into himself, trying to rip the mask off.

He would have to speak to Talia in the morning. With one last glance at the shut door, he headed towards his own room, exhausted yet intrigued by what was to come.


	3. Are

The next morning, Peter stepped into a kitchen filled with tension.

Stiles was sitting at the table, tense and fidgeting as the rest of the Hales stood or sat nearby and observed him. Their residence was the main house and a lot of times the other families came in and out. Currently though, it was just Laura, Derek, Cora and Talia’s husband Andrew.

Most likely Talia had warned the rest of the pack to not come in this morning so as to not overwhelm their new guest, though judging from Stiles’ increasing distressed scent, even this small amount of wolves left him stressed.

Everyone looked up when he walked in. He didn’t miss the sigh of relief Stiles seemed to let out, shoulders dropping into a more relaxed stance. Interesting.

Peter cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow at the rest of the Hales. Laura, Cora, and Derek did look a bit sheepish as they left the room. Sometimes, they could be a bit intense. Andrew just continued sipping his tea quietly, looking content and relaxed sitting across the table from the mysterious shaman still wearing a blood streaked mask.

There was also a cup of tea and basket of bread in front of Stiles, most likely courtesy of Andrew who could be polite to the most bizarre people.

Despite being one of the only humans in their pack, Andrew was rarely affected by the many creatures they’ve seen and fought with. He was the solid brick wall to Talia’s more volatile nature. She was an Alpha that tried her best, and though she did have her flaws, Andrew helped temper her in a way.

It was why their dynamic worked so well, something that Peter would never admit he envied. Despite being past marriageable age, he’d never found anyone that caught his interest longer than one night or a week. His wolf was always too restless to be tied down, and he didn’t care for those unable to keep up with his personality and intellect.

It was arrogant, perhaps, but Peter was unapologetically himself, whether or not people liked it. Luckily, he had charisma that charmed almost everyone he met. His sly smiles and natural flirtations gave him an easier time when it came to social interactions. He wasn’t above manipulating people to get what he wanted, something that his pack knew well and left them rather wary of him.

Now, his interest was focused on their new guest, the shaman that offered so many tantalizing answers to the questions he had. Peter was brimming with curiosity, his desire for knowledge compelling him to spend more time with Stiles. The sooner the man trusted him, the closer he was to getting some answers.

Idly, he hoped that Stiles would be able to keep his attention long enough to be interesting.

It wasn’t until something bounced off his chest that Peter roused himself out of the daze he’d fallen into, still half asleep. He glanced down, mouth dropping open incredulously and eyes squinting at the piece of bread now on the floor.

“Did you just…throw a piece of bread at me?” Peter questioned haltingly, so amazed by the fearlessness of the man that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to sink his teeth into his throat till he bled or suck until he gave him more pleasurable bruises. Generally, he kept a tight leash on his wolf and they usually had the same wants and needs. Yet, with the appearance of this enigma of a shaman he was often left unbalanced, his instincts warring with his intellect. He understood that the wolf’s attraction to him reflected his own, yet he couldn’t allow it. They still knew nothing about this man and indulging would be a stupid move.

He shook himself quickly out of that train of thought, opting instead to pick up the bread and place it in front of Stiles. He leaned over threateningly, placing his left hand on the table and his right on the back of Stiles’ chair.

“Now, you better have an explanation for that or I’ll make you eat this, dirt and all.” His voice was slow and soft, the danger in it apparent as he flashed his beta blue eyes at the shaman. The only reaction Stiles had to his eye color was a slight hitch of his breath. Good, it seemed the shaman understood what exactly blue werewolf eyes meant.

Recovering quickly, Stiles seemed to scowl angrily up at Peter from where he was seated. He gestured at the tea cup before patting his hand on the mask.

“You can’t drink it because of the mask?” Peter tilted his head to the side, his gaze tracing the outer edges of the mask. It was a ram skull so the front of the skull narrowed down into a V shape. If he leaned slightly to the sides he could see at least half of Stiles’ face shadowed by the mask. He noticed freckled cheeks and plush lips, ones that were bitten raw and slightly bleeding.

He made a quick mental note to get Stiles a bath soon. The quick scrub he’d done yesterday had gotten rid of the worst of it but his face was still quite stained and dirty underneath the mask.

“Clearly there’s enough space under that mask for you to eat and drink. Maybe try again.” Peter commented sarcastically, grinning at the glare he received in return. The man had thrown a piece of bread at him. He was lucky Peter was feeling too sleepy to hurt him for it.

Letting out a huff of irritation, Stiles picked up the cup. He poked Peter in the chest once, demanding he watch, and then lifted the cup up to his mouth. He tilted the cup back to drink and the end of his mask dipped into the tea cup, leaving it dripping wet and slightly tinged.

Looking miserable, Stiles set the cup back down rather harshly and crossed his arms as if to say ‘See? How the heck do you expect me to drink this?’

Peter let out a snort of laughter at how ridiculous the attempt had looked. He decided to take pity on the poor man and went about finding him a utensil.

After rifling through a drawer, he procured a wooden spoon and handed it to Stiles. The shaman held it, confused. A few moments later, he figured it out and quickly started shoving spoonfuls of tea into his mouth. He must have been thirsty and hungry after yesterday’s ordeal. Once he had enough of the tea, he quickly picked up the bread and started ripping bite sized pieces off.

Satisfied that the shaman was kept busy for now, he went about making his own cup and grabbing a bread for himself. At the rate Stiles was eating, there would be none left.

Talia took that moment to step into the kitchen as well, yawning in a way quite similar to her brother, though they both always denied it. She bent down to give a quick kiss to her husband before making some tea for herself.

Peter frowned, taking another drink of his tea as his eyes darted to Stiles. Seeing Talia reminded Peter of the fact that he still had to speak to her about Stiles’…condition.

Talia raised a brow at him, sipping the scalding liquid. Being a werewolf had its perks, and one of those included accelerated healing. She tended to be impatient, and it worked out marvelously for her as she healed quickly from any burns she received from eating or drinking something before it cooled down.

She could tell Peter was holding himself back from speaking, and the only person here who would make him hesitant to speak his mind could only be Stiles. He was still an anomaly, a stranger in their den. His smell was starting to assert itself in the house, and though it wasn’t necessarily bad, it still made most of the werewolves feel a little uncomfortable. Especially with his distinct scent of magic and power, it made the younger ones restless.

“Peter, meet me in my study.”

Peter nodded, getting up quickly and taking both their finished cups to the sink.

“Derek,” Talia spoke in the same volume, confident that her son would hear her. “I want you to show Stiles around, make sure to introduce him to the other members of the pack.”

Derek came around the corner, a hesitant smile on his face and his posture purposefully loose and friendly.

“Let’s go.” Derek gestured softly to the door leading outside. Stiles stood but seemed unsure of himself, his back seemed to tense and his hands clenched tight on the dinner table. After a brief pause, he straightened up and met Derek’s gaze head on, his own fierce.

He marched up to the teenager like a man going to war and nodded to him decisively.

‘Lead the way,’ He seemed to be saying, his hand clutching Derek’s arm in a move that surprised the werewolves before he proceeded to drag Derek out the door.

“That boy is a bit of a wild one,” Andrew commented. Amusement danced in his eyes and he met Talia’s own softer ones.

“He is.” Talia’s lips turned up to one side, her smirk devilish. “Reminds me of Laura when she was younger.”

A voice called out from where the living room was, her tone slightly bitter but playful.

“Hey! I resent that. I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were.” They could hear Cora snickering and a loud smack that quickly led to a tussle.

“Shut up you brat, let’s see if I ever let you eat the best pieces of meat ever again.”

Laughter echoed through the house and even Peter couldn’t help the way his lips broke into a genuine, soft smile. His pack was truly all that mattered to him. That was why he had to speak to Talia. His wolf seemed to want the man and trust him to an extent, but what he learned last night wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

Talia cleared her throat and Peter nodded, smile dropping as he gathered his thoughts, their walk to the study filled with a somber silence.

Once inside the study, Talia sat down in her chair behind her desk. Peter closed the door behind him, holding in his shudder at the uncomfortable brush of magic as the soundproofing was activated, courtesy of Deaton. Sometimes, they needed a space that they could speak with each other or the alpha without other family members overhearing. It made it a safe space, a place for them to speak up.

“What is it you wanted to tell me?” Talia asked, her question firm yet soft. Clearly, this was an issue Peter deemed important enough to bother her with. When it came to her Second, any time he wished to speak with her alone, it was almost always bad news.

Clearing his throat, Peter regally sat himself down in the chair across from her. He crossed his legs and folded his hands neatly in his lap, his face breaking into a smirk that revealed nothing when she narrowed her eyes at him.

“It seems our little guest is not all that he seems.” Peter started, only to be stopped by Talia.

She raised up a hand, flashing her eyes red in irritation.

“Get to the point Peter, I don’t have time for your convoluted tales.”

“As you wish, Alpha.” Peter dipped his head once, mockingly, before sobering up, his lips set in a grim line. “Stiles told me he was one of the Cursed.”

Talia inhaled sharply, her eyes widening slightly before she visibly forced herself to calm down.

“Are you sure?”

The words ‘they’re just a myth’ went unsaid but it floated in the air between them, tainted with disbelief and slight fear.

Peter nodded, a sigh breaking through his lips as his eyes stared at a spot over Talia’s shoulders, unfocused. He was running through all the information he had on the Cursed, and everything he’d read and heard all matched up to Stiles condition.

“You saw for yourself how his eyes have lost the glow customary for shamans. His inability to speak and the fact that the mask doesn’t come off might also be part of it.”

Peter paused, his gaze focusing back on Talia, noticing her tense posture and the way her hands were clutched tightly together. The Cursed were a legend, a type of dark shaman that fell out of favor with the Goddess yet at the same time were blessed by her. They held unimaginable amounts of power in a blessing of irony, yet they would continue experiencing tragedy after tragedy until the price for their crime was paid in full.

The Cursed were those who were favored by the Goddess and chose the wrong path. She would then give them a chance to repent and when the scales were balanced once more, they would break the curse and earn back their light magic. Usually there were certain conditions, in Stiles’ case, the Goddess took his voice and his ability to express himself with a permanent mask.

Most shamans who chose to use dark magic were not cursed. They were not given a second chance and spent the rest of their lives suffering both physical and mental pains as a punishment for their usage of dark magic. Many went insane, to the point of killing themselves.

Stiles then, was one of the lucky few who had the Goddess on their side. Peter didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse in disguise. Sure, they would be spared the eventual madness, yet if they couldn’t break the curse then they were stuck with the conditions of their curse forever. Unless Stiles found a way out of his situation, he would never speak again, and the mask would become a part of him till he died.

What alarmed both of them the most was the fact that usually repercussions like this didn’t happen unless the shaman did something irreparable, like take a human life or use blood magic.

Stiles had told them without words that he had never killed an innocent.

“He lied to us then,” Talia finally spoke, her voice steady yet the growl in it unmistakable.

Peter shrugged, his mind running a mile a minute as he came up with a few plausible reasons why Stiles didn’t lie, yet he was cursed.

“Most likely he didn’t. We asked him if he killed an innocent.” Peter looked up and met her eyes, his own flashing blue at her alpha red gaze. “I think that whoever it was he killed, or whatever it was he did, he had good intentions. They were likely not innocent, but it was still a life.”

“Then, he will have to pay his price in blood.” Talia leaned back, her hand tapping a short rhythm on the desk, her nails shortening and lengthening into points as she played with her shift. “He’s dangerous.”

“No, he’s not.” Peter shook his head, the vehemence in his voice surprising even him. He’d immediately defended Stiles, even though he could understand where Talia was coming from. “I’m dangerous.” Peter amended, leaning forward and letting his eyes glow the beautiful blue that was a curse in itself, a mark of darkness. The mark of someone who had murdered an innocent. A flash of guilt passed through Talia’s eyes before quickly smoothing out into a neutral expression.

“He’s just lost.”

They stared at each other for a few more tense seconds before Talia relented. With a sigh, she ran her hand through her hair, eyes closed and her face weary.

“Then what do you suggest we do?”

“We should help him figure out how to break the curse.” Peter proposed, his mind already set on several options they could try out. “It’s better for us in the long run. He’s powerful, even tainted with dark magic and trapped by the curse, he’s an asset we can’t afford to lose.”

Peter’s voice was silky smooth, well versed in using his words to get what he wanted. Talia knew him well, but even she wasn’t immune to the logic of his words.

“You know how rare shamans are, especially one not attached to a pack. Deaton is…an acceptable enigma, but he’s only a druid. With a shaman in our pack, we could protect ourselves better. Even if we never break the curse, he is still powerful. If we do break it, the Hales will see a period of peace and prosperity like never before.”

Shamans were natural protectors and connected to the land. It would allow them to truly claim the forest as theirs and protect it accordingly.

Talia wavered, her reluctance showing through her words.

“Fine. You make a fair point. I will allow this but there will be several conditions.”

She leaned forward again, her glare alpha red as she stared him down to make sure he understood how serious she was.

“This curse is problematic and the most likely solution is for Stiles to pay the price in blood. The Goddess has always been fair. A life for a life. Stiles took one and he will have to either give up his own blood, enough to break the curse, or hunt down some sacrifices. That can mean anything but it will most likely lead to someone getting hurt, even if the ones he kill are those that are enemies of the Goddess. If any of the Hales are involuntarily injured because of him, we will kill him.”

Peter nodded, that was fair, he would do the same. If Stiles hurt them he wouldn’t hesitate to rip his throat out. His wolf whined at the thought of hurting the shaman and Peter barely held back his scowl at the uncomfortable sensation. Except for one notable exception years ago, he’d always been a man that listened to his brain rather than his instincts, yet in all his years, he’d never been this disconnected and in disagreement with his wolf. His wolf wanted to dive right in and roll around in Stiles’ scent, Peter was much more reserved in that regard. After the incident that made him Talia’s Second, he thought he’d trained until he had firm control over his instincts. Now, it was like all his efforts to not be a slave to his instincts were in vain.

“And finally, if we are to do this, you will be in charge of him. You’re the one most qualified to deal with him in case he becomes hostile.”

“Of course,” Peter smirked, the stretch of it bitter on his lips as he crossed his arms. “Because I’m expendable.”

“No, brother,” Talia firmly shot down his self destructive thoughts, her brows furrowed as she frowned. “It is because there is no one as well equipped as you to handle him both intellectually and physically.”

There was a pause as Talia let that sink in, Peter slowly relaxed back into his chair, loosening his stance and letting his arms rest on his lap.

Just as he felt content enough to suggest they end this meeting, Talia gave him a rather mischievous look, her eyes now their normal brown and glinting evilly.

“And of course, I’ve noticed that you most definitely want to handle him _physically_ if the attraction you keep broadcasting is any indication.”

Peter scoffed, refusing to give a reaction to her words. His jaw clenched and he rolled his eyes, playing off her words as a joke.

“If we’re done here, I have a shaman I need to stalk for the foreseeable future.”

Peter stood up without waiting for permission, already heading to the door.

“Enjoy yourself, Peter.” The humor was clear in her voice and he could imagine the grin on her lips as he closed the door behind him. He allowed himself a soft chuckle, no longer holding himself back.

This would be an interesting experience to say the least.

Peter straightened up, his own eyes shining with determination and a truly devious light. This worked out well with his personal agenda anyways, as long as he got closer to the shaman, he would gain the knowledge he wanted. He would just have to be careful and keep a close watch over his wolf.

Humming, he headed out the door already devising all the different ways he could coerce Stiles into giving him what he wanted. 


	4. My

It was cold outside, the chill of the morning still prevalent as Stiles let go of Derek’s arm, gesturing at him to lead the way.

It was bizarre to him, being affected by the weather this way. As a shaman, he was unaffected by nature’s harsh elements, his connection to the earth buffering all it’s effects. He would walk around shirtless, tattoos on display, as he didn’t need the clothing to stay warm. He didn’t even wear shoes, confident with every step that the forest would never hurt him.

Now, with the cold wind slicing across his skin, it was clear to him the Goddess no longer shone her blessed light upon him.

He shivered, his arms hugging himself tightly. The thin shirt they’d given him did little to prevent the bite of the cold. For the first time since he’d realized he was Cursed, he was thankful for his mask. It at least prevented the worst of the fall air from touching the skin on his face.

Derek seemed to notice his dilemma and walked briskly towards another log cabin a little farther down the road. Stiles trailed after him, distracted from his discomfort by the curiosity he felt as he looked around the clearing.

The house he’d exited was pretty large, a sprawling cabin that seemed to occupy most of the space in the clearing. That was the pack den, the warmth it had and the general feeling of peace he felt in there told him that this pack was a close one.

The clearing itself housed several cabins. The others were more moderate in size and seemed to be meant for small families or groups. Though they were similar, they all had their own distinct aura.

Stiles saw one that had lines of wire stretched across the nearby tree line, on it were pieces of meat, hanging to dry. Another had an entryway covered with wooden figurines, the details of each intricate and unique.

The one Derek led him to had a porch with a wooden railing covered in strips of cloth. Each one was knotted tightly, some bright, and some faded through time and weathered. His eyes widened as he took in the colors. His village had been more secluded and rarely had the luxury of trading with merchants. In fact, colored dyes were expensive in general and not many people could afford it.

He wondered how prestigious were the Hales, to so casually display colored cloth as if it was a decoration.

Derek stepped through the door, Stiles following as well, his fingers trailing gently across the cloth. They were soft to the touch and clearly whoever this cabin belonged to enjoyed fabrics.

“Grandma!” Derek called out, and Stiles immediately tensed. Werewolves were a matriarchal society and though this was the first time he’d encountered a pack as large as this one, he knew enough to be wary of the power the Alpha’s mother possessed.

Still, the Hales were a good type. Not like the omega werewolves he occasionally had to deal with back when he was the protector of his village. Most of them would leave once he announced his presence, wary of his power. Some, however, were too feral to resist the urge to attack him and he’d regrettably had to contain them until the village dealt with them.

He’d never killed anyone, not even the feral wolves. It was not in his nature and it was certainly not something a shaman could do without tainting themselves. A small, darker part of himself whispered that he’d always been capable of it. Had barely managed to resist killing those wolves himself when he had them at his mercy.

Scott may have been the catalyst that pushed him to murder, but it was only a matter of time until he gave in.

He felt a soft hand cup his cheek and he jerked back, breathing in a startled gasp at the sensation.

“Are you alright there, my child?” Wrinkled hazel eyes met his own troubled ones and he held his breath. He’d forgotten that werewolves could smell emotions. No doubt, he’d been broadcasting his self loathing and distress.

He opened his mouth to answer her before remembering his situation. He closed his mouth, sighing as he nodded.

“It’s alright. You are safe here, with us.”

_But are you safe with me? Are you safe, when there is a murderer eating your food, wearing your clothes?_

Stiles didn’t voice his thoughts, not that he could with him being mute and all. Derek’s grandmother led him to another room that had a wooden bench covered in plush furs. He was gently but firmly pushed until he sat down in front of the fireplace.

“Everyone here calls me Granny. I’d like it if you did the same.”

Stiles didn’t respond, though he wished he could. He blinked up at her with dull golden brown eyes and she gave him a wry smile, something sad in the twist of her lips.

“We’ve been informed of your problem. Don’t worry about a thing, we’ll take care of you.”

Right, he vaguely remembered seeing her with the others when he’d had his freak out in the infirmary room. They had stood, worried and on the fringes of his attention as Peter tried to restrain him.

She quickly walked out of the room, returning with a fur cloak of some sort that had a hood and mantle piece. She handed it to him and he gave her a nod of thanks before slipping it on over his shirt, sighing at how he instantly felt warmer.

Noticing his bare feet, she made a scolding sound and quickly returned with some soft fur moccasins. They were suede brown, made of some sort of animal pelt. The pelt had been tanned and cured to the point of malleability. It was turned inside out so the fur was on the inside of the shoe and the tanned side was facing outwards. There were laces on the edges of it to tighten up the moccasin and it covered just above his ankles as he slipped them on curiously.

Seeing as he had never really needed shoes, the plush sensation was entirely new. He flexed his toes excitedly, digging into the furs and giving a content sigh at the feeling.

Derek, for his part had stayed off to the side, occasionally looking out the window in boredom. He seemed antsy about something, his arms crossed and fingers tapping an unsteady rhythm.

Stiles found himself glancing at the younger wolf in curiosity a few times but since Granny Hale didn’t react, he assumed it was a common enough sight.

After a few more minutes warming up by the fire and listening to Granny talk about anything from the nearby villages to her favorite fabric dye, it was time to go.

Stiles had learned a lot about the Hales and their relations to the nearby villages as well as how everything functioned.

For the most part, the Hales kept to themselves and were known as the eccentric, reclusive hunters that occasionally came out of their designated area to trade with the villagers for things they couldn’t make themselves.

They had a peaceful enough relationship, one only slightly wrought with tension because of their paranoia and fear of the Hales. It seemed that many of the villagers believed the Hales to be monsters, which, although true to an extent, was still rather rude.

Then again, it wasn’t uncommon for humans to shun those who were different from themselves. Of course, the nearby villages didn’t know that the Hales were actually werewolves, otherwise there’d be an angry mob in this peaceful clearing. Still, the large animals they were able to hunt down led to rumors that spread like wildfire. Luckily, the villagers liked their products too much to question it.

Stiles followed Derek throughout the clearing as he was introduced to all the different Hales. A few were wary but most were welcoming, respectful of his position as a shaman.

He felt like a fraud, because deep down he knew that he wasn’t one anymore. Whatever he had done had thoroughly tainted his magic. He was too afraid to try using it, terrified of what it would cost him and who exactly it would hurt. There was always a price for magic and while before it was harmless things like potions and plants, now it held the cloying scent of blood and death. He knew what his magic would cost him, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to go through with it.

The Goddess was kind to him, in a way, and gave him this second chance to redeem himself. He hadn’t killed with power and selfish intentions, rather he did it to save a friend.

Deep in thought, he absentmindedly brushed fingers across the dried streak of blood on his cheeks. They hadn’t washed off with the water and he’d seen in the water’s reflection that his mask now also bore the same red streaks across the eye holes.

He knew this mark, and understood what his punishment was. It was one of retribution and balance. In order to be forgiven for the life he had taken he would have to pay his price in blood.

He didn’t know what exactly that entailed but at least some idea of what he needed to do was better than nothing. He refused to break the curse if it meant he would have to kill again.

He had several ideas in mind, one in particular seemed more plausible than the rest. Perhaps, in order to make up for his sin, he was sent to the Hales on purpose. Maybe, the price he had to pay would be his own blood, spilled in a gesture of protection rather than sacrifice.

It definitely fit in with what he had in mind. As a shaman, he was a protector and it made sense that the Goddess wanted him to earn that title back, to prove to her that he deserved it.

Then, he would stay here as long as the Hales allowed, and protect them till his dying breath.

Mind made up, he smiled for the first time in days.

Derek seemed to sense his good mood and lightly jostled his shoulder with his own, the movement dulled by the fur cloak.

“You okay?”

Stiles nodded, content, now that he had a goal in mind. He would have to personally visit every house and patrol the perimeter to get a feel of the land. Although he was now cut off from the nature around him, he should still be able to carve protection sigils into the trees and make physical charms for the Hales to wear. He wouldn’t be able to use his magic which restricted how much he could do, but he would try his best.

For his first matter of business, he decided to open his shaman eyes, the one that gave him the trademark gold glow to his pupils. With it, he used to be able to see auras to an extent and read people’s intentions. It was especially useful for judging all the travelers that came and went into his village.

A pang of hurt shot through him at the thought of his old village, the one he’d been sworn to protect. He didn’t regret what he did, knowing it would cost the village their protection. Without his magic, their wards wouldn’t work. He’d hoped that they would still keep him around, that maybe they could see that he would still be useful to them.

They’d tossed him out like he was a piece of trash, when before they’d groveled before him and treated him with respect. It made him feel bitter, his teeth grinding together as he remembered how those people he had given so much of his life to protect tried to kill him.

Shaking his head roughly, he let out an irritated huff of breath and tried to concentrate. Derek shot him a concerned look but he ignored it, closing his eyes again as he tried to bring forth his blessed eyes.

When his eyes fluttered open, he expected to be bombarded by a flood of colors. Auras appeared differently to every shaman and to him, it was always wisps of color, of intent, that floated and drifted out of each person. Each wisp was unique to that person and when they interacted with others, they usually left a piece of their aura with that person whether it be by casual physical contact or heightened emotions. The stronger the intent, the more intense the aura left behind.

He blinked a few times, breathing quick and hard when he realized he couldn’t see. While before he saw intent in everything, now…the world was dulled. He could see the wisps of color like smoke in the wind, barely there out of the corner of his eyes but disappeared when he focused.

He held in a sob at the sight, tears swimming in his eyes as he realized that this was yet another one of the fundamental pieces of himself that the Goddess has taken as a punishment. He could tell, even without looking into a mirror, that his eyes no longer held that same golden glow.

He pulled himself together quickly, straightening his back and pushing back his shoulders. No, he had to look at this positively, at least she hadn’t taken it all away. In fact, he could still see some-

“Stiles!”

Derek’s voice broke him out of his concentration, his dazed eyes meeting concerned hazel ones. The tone of Derek’s voice suggested that he’d been calling him for a while but Stiles had been too distracted to notice.

He was about to shake off Derek’s concern, thankful for the first time that he couldn’t talk and thus wouldn’t be grilled for an answer, when his gaze sharpened on a spot on Derek’s shoulder and neck.

It was…silver. It was dark, a miasma of ill will and hatred. It clung to him like oil, a handprint on his shoulder that seemed to sluggishly move at times. There was a kiss mark on his skin that looked like liquid metal, something that passed unseen through normal human eyes but stood out with alarming concern to Stiles.

It screamed of malicious intent and Stiles was surprised Derek was still alive with how badly whoever it was had wanted him dead.

Stiles carefully placed his hand on Derek’s shoulder, casually brushing his hand across the mark on his neck to erase it. He was relieved to see his own golden-green aura cover it, his touch full of calm neutrality.

Derek for his part was stiff, his eyes switching from glaring at Stiles to baffled confusion.

“What are you doing?” His voice was a growl, demanding answers, and Stiles didn’t even know how to explain it.

So he lied.

He pointed to the trees near them and made a little wriggling motion with his finger, as if to indicate a bug.

Derek relaxed then, rolling his shoulders back before using his own hand to swipe at his neck, covering Stiles’ scent with his own.

“Just don’t do that again. Scent marking is something only those close to us can do.”

Stiles nodded, eager to let the subject go as long as Derek didn’t question his actions. He knew enough about werewolf culture to understand that had been invasive, but he hadn’t been able to resist the urge to erase that disgusting mark. It was like an parasite, burrowing deep into Derek’s own aura and marking him maliciously.

They headed back to the main house, introductions done for the day and Stiles shot Derek several contemplative glances as they walked.

The kid was still young, closer to a teenager than an adult, something that Stiles envied, yet didn’t. Being a child was carefree, it was enjoying playing with Scott while his father yelled at them for getting all muddy. It was before responsibilities and the emergence of his abilities.

But it was also gullibility and pain. Anger and betrayal by someone you thought was a friend.

Derek was clearly involved in something or someone more dangerous than he was aware of. The boy was barely old enough to be a man and yet…

Stiles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose under his mask. Well, as the self designated protector of the Hales, he would just have to keep an eye out for now.

The moment they stepped into the house, Stiles blinked his eyes, putting away his special sight for now. Mostly, it was because while before he drew his powers from the nature around him and thus never ran out of energy, now he had to use blood in order to replenish his magic. He refused to do that, so it left him on low power until his body naturally built up his magic reserves again.

A part of him also felt wary around Peter. The man was an enigma. One moment he would be smirking and down right predatory, the next he’d be aloof and uncaring.

It was hard to get a read on him, and though he hid his fear well, the older wolf still made him uneasy. Seeing his intentions and his aura, no matter how limited his shaman abilities currently were, was still something he wasn’t sure he wanted to see.

Still, he could respect the clear love Peter had for his pack. He had a sinking feeling that Peter would stop at nothing to protect his pack. With a slight shiver of unease, Stiles was suddenly really glad that his goals were aligned with Peter’s. He’d already had a glimpse of the side of Peter that gave him his title of Second, his potential ruthlessness and barely restrained violence.

It was a darkness that reflected parts of him he didn’t want to acknowledge, because every time Peter looked at him with those cursed blue eyes, fear wasn’t the only thing he felt.

He _wanted_.

A part of him would perk up, a dark tendril of want slowly creeping through his mask. He could hide all he wanted but in the end, Peter and him were the same type of people.

They would both do anything for their family, their loyalty sharpened to the point of danger. Stiles had killed for Scott, and he knew that Peter’s hands weren’t clean either. He’d seen the blue in Peter’s eyes.

A cup was placed into his hands and Stiles startled, almost dropping the warm mug if it wasn’t for the large hands that surrounded his own, steadying him.

“Careful,” Peter murmured, his eyes glinting in amusement as his lips tilted up. “Wouldn’t want to burn those pretty fingers of yours.”

He knew when he was being made fun of, even if Peter didn’t outwardly show it. He scowled and hastily stepped back, missing the warmth of Peter’s hands as it fell from his without resistance.

They glared at each other as Derek’s eyes darted between the two of them, uncertain. Well, Stiles glared. Peter mostly smirked, eyes narrowed calculatingly.

The damn wolf was always smirking about something, that smarmy look fit him well but Stiles wasn’t about to admit to that. He bared his teeth in a snarl, though no sound fell from his lips.

Peter let out a chuckle at the sight, as if he was humoring a puppy.

“Stiles, are you challenging me right now?” Peter felt the shift overtake him, his facial structure rearranging with sickening cracks and his claws lengthening. Stiles stood his ground, though he felt a tremor run through him at the gruesome sight. He’d never seen the change this close before. All of the werewolves he’d met were either feral omega werewolves or those passing through and kept their human visage.

“Shouldn’t you know better than to provoke a wolf?” He let his sub-vocal growl permeate his voice, knowing it was absolutely terrifying to the human ear. It amused him greatly whenever humans cowered in fear at the sight of him. He didn’t have much of an opportunity to terrorize people, seeing as most of them were enemies and he only had a moment to savor it before he had to kill them.

It was almost adorable how the boy stood like a frightened, frozen rabbit in the sights of a predator. Still, instead of running or turning to Derek for help, he let out a quiet huff of annoyance and sipped at the tea Peter had given him.

He didn’t react other than to give a very obvious yawn, his hand coming up to pat at his mouth before gesturing at Peter’s entire body as if to say ‘that’s it? Not impressed.’

Peter was rarely taken by surprise, mostly due to his fast thinking and the fact that most of the time, he was ten steps ahead of everyone else. However, Stiles’ reaction not only brought out a confused whine from his wolf, it also shocked him into letting go of the shift.

Quickly turning back into a human, his mouth slightly open in astonishment, he could do nothing but turn around and watch as Stiles walked past him and sat at the dinner table nonchalantly. He looked entirely unruffled by the encounter.

There was snort of laughter behind him and he whipped back around, teeth bared at Derek.

His nephew was holding in his laughter, his hand pressed to his mouth as he met Peter’s embarrassed eyes with ones dancing with mirth.

“It seems you’ve met your match,” Derek commented after letting out a few chuckles at Peter’s expense. His nephew yawned as well, scratching the back of his head absentmindedly. “Not that this hasn’t been wildly entertaining but I’m going to take a nap. Wake me up when dinner’s ready.”

Peter glared at his nephew as he walked out of the dining room. Peter’s shoulders were hunched inwards, still reeling from the fact that Stiles had essentially completely dismissed his show of power. Where was the man that had shuddered in fear when he threatened him before? The shaman had made him look like a posturing fool.

Sighing deeply, he turned and sat at the dining room table across from Stiles. The shaman seemed to be peacefully drinking his tea but Peter knew better.

This devious shit was probably laughing inside at how he had outwitted Peter at his own game.

Running a hand down his face wearily, Peter pushed back his hair and sat up straighter, folding his fingers together and resting his mouth on them as he put his elbows on the table.

His initial plan had been to covertly follow Stiles at every chance, popping in every once in a while to mess with him. From what he’d seen though, Stiles was not an easy adversary and would most likely seek vengeance for any action Peter took against him.

So, for the first time, he addressed another person as his equal.

“Listen,” Peter started, uncharacteristically serious, something that Stiles seemed to notice. The shaman hadn’t known him for long but he knew enough to regard Peter cautiously, for once the wolf’s tone not dismissive or mocking. “We’re going to have to deal with each other for as long as you stay here.”

Stiles opened his mouth as if to speak, forgetting for a moment that he couldn’t and Peter lifted up a hand palm up to stall him.

“No, we’re not trying to kick you out. What I’m trying to say is that our relationship can either be antagonistic or mutually beneficial.”

_Oh there are many ways we could benefit, say in the bedroom for example…_

He ruthlessly shoved that down, hating how his wolf enthusiastically rolled around at that thought. Clearing his throat, he continued speaking, thanking the Goddess that shamans were unable to smell emotions.

“As a Cursed, you are a potential risk to our pack. Talia has assigned me to be your…guard dog of sorts.” Peter rolled his eyes at his own wording, knowing without looking that Stiles was probably getting a real kick out of this.

Even without a voice, Stiles somehow managed to be very vocal about his thoughts. Not only in the way he expressed himself physically but with the way he broadcasted his emotions. Stiles was fierce and passionate, he felt everything deeply and he wasn’t exactly trained to hide his feelings around werewolves so more often than not the pack got a blaring connection to every one of Stiles’ emotions. This led to Peter knowing just a little too much how Stiles found amusement in almost every single pun or potential dog joke that arose in conversations around him.

He leaned back, resting his arms on the table palm up and open, trying to exude sincerity.

He wasn’t exactly succeeding if the suspicious look Stiles gave him was any indication.

“I want to propose something that will work for both of us. I know you won’t like being followed around like a child that needs looking after. So, I would much rather we work together towards a mutual goal.”

Stiles cocked his head to the side, gesturing with his hand to Peter as if to say ‘go on, I’m listening.’

“You want to break the curse, and we want to help you do that. With you and me working together, I trust it won’t be long before we figure out what exactly we need to solve your dilemma.”

Stiles frowned, grabbing one of Peter’s hands and tracing words into his palm.

_What’s in it for you guys? Why would you help me?_

Peter sighed, deciding to be frank with Stiles because the boy was too clever for his own good. It would be wise to be as clear as possible now, in order to have a better pack relationship in the future, especially if things worked out how they wanted.

“Well, what we want is for you to stay.”

Stiles eyes widened in shock, before confusion took over.

_Why?_

“You’re a shaman, and a powerful one at that. The Goddess also favors you. Even with the curse, you will be a valuable asset to our pack. Of course, our main goal is to break the curse so you can go back to your full potential, but Talia and I both agree you would have a place here with us for as long as you want it.” Peter pressed his back against the wooden chair, using the feeling to ground himself. He felt a little unsettled being this honest with someone. He always enjoyed word games, to the point of murder sometimes. However, he knew that this was important and he could not afford to lose the shaman due to dishonesty later down the line.

Stiles’ mouth had dropped open, his breathing shallow as he tried to process the fact that the Hale pack seemed to actually want him here. More than just as a guest.

The wolf watched with interest, tilting his head to the side. His eyes narrowed at the way Stiles darted out a tongue to wet chapped, pink lips.

Peter leaned in, unable to resist, using the hand Stiles still had resting in his palm to pull him closer. He lifted Stiles arm until it was resting against his cheek. Eyes closed, he turned his head, his lips pressing against the boy’s vulnerable wrist.

He breathed in deeply, mouth salivating at the heavy cocktail of arousal, confusion, and fear that he could smell from Stiles.

“You asked why,” Peter murmured softly, his voice barely audible as he opened his eyes, just enough that Stiles could see the eerie blue glow. “A part of it is because you’re interesting, Stiles, and my wolf wants to…’

Peter’s words trailed off, a growl falling out of his mouth and his mouth opened slightly, his canines too sharp to be human.

There was a sharp inhale from Stiles, yet he didn’t pull away. Still, the sound was enough to shake Peter out of whatever spell he’d fallen under, enticed by Stiles allure and held captive under the instincts of his wolf.

He cursed under his breath, quickly releasing Stiles’ arm and standing up abruptly, almost overturning his chair in his haste.

“Well honesty hour is over,” Peter forced out the words, his pounding heart and slightly unsteady hands the only indication of his unease. “We’ll share ideas and try different things tomorrow to try and figure out a way to break the curse.”

The wolf left quickly, leaving Stiles shaken and contemplative.

That night, Peter didn’t show up to dinner.


	5. Beginning

Over the next few days, Stiles and Peter fell into a steady routine.

They would have a quiet breakfast each morning before heading out to one of the log cabins at the edge of the woods. This cabin was for Deaton, the Hale druid, whenever his skills were needed. Mostly, he stayed at his own house in the village where he acted as the village healer.

Stiles had met Deaton a few days after the Hales told him to stay. In between bickering with Peter and trying to heal, they had called Deaton in to check up on Stiles as promised. The man was an enigma, someone who spoke in riddles and gave no certain answers.

When asked if he would heal nicely, Deaton had just said something cryptically positive and left him with some new salves, charms and bandages.

At the very least, Deaton confirmed that he indeed had internal bleeding but that it wasn’t life threatening. The charms would accelerate his healing and he would recover nicely. They had tried asking the druid if he knew anything about the curse that could help them, maybe some useful suggestions at the very least, but Deaton had not been forthcoming. He had said he didn’t come into contact with shamans often.

While druids and shamans were assumed to be similar based on their nature based magic, they were in fact two different types of magic users. Druids tended to be neutral and focused on keeping a balance. They were more loyal to the forest than they were to the shaman’s moon Goddess.

Shamans on the other hand didn’t hesitate to unbalance everything to protect those they valued. It led to some animosity between both groups so in general they avoided each other.

The cabin was technically unoccupied most of the time and it contained all the herbs and materials they needed for experimenting.

They had shared ideas, or at least tried to, compiling those they thought would be most likely to break the curse.

“We should try animal sacrifices first.” Peter started, picking the leaves off of the various hanging stalks of plants. Stiles guided him, pointing at which ones he needed as he skimmed over the books on protection magic they had in the cabin. It was from the Hale’s personal library, and though Peter had been wary of letting the shaman have access to it, he did at least take out the book on protection magic.

Stiles had been ecstatic. Being the only magic user in his village, in addition to the fact that his village was rather secluded and kept to themselves, he never had the opportunity to explore other magic. Everything he’d done, he’d invented and modified after much trial and error.

Still, the boy was much too focused on the book. They were supposed to be finding a way to break the curse, not waste time sitting around reading.

Stiles looked up at his words, his mouth hanging open, appalled. Peter noticed that Stiles never seemed to keep his mouth shut. Whether it was his teeth pressed into his bottom lip in concentration, or just the way he mouthed certain words, his mouth was always _open_.

He liked to pretend it didn’t distract him as much as it did.

Peter rolled his eyes, anticipating Stiles’ reaction.

“We’ve already determined that you need to pay your price in blood. Animal blood is still blood. It would be stupid not to try that before we move on to humans.”

Stiles grabbed his hand in a familiar motion, though this time his nails dug in, enough to make Peter bare his teeth in a snarl.

_We are not killing any humans._

“Then pray tell, how do you expect to break this curse?”

Stiles stayed stubbornly silent, his shoulders hunched in defeat as he mixed the plant based paste he’d been working on in his mortar and pestle. The boy smelled like pain and guilt, and Peter softened at that, sighing.

“We can try animals first. It might not come to that, not if we exhaust our other options first.”

Stiles raised tired eyes to meet his and nodded reluctantly, mouth pressed into a grim line.

“Good boy.” Peter smiled in triumph, his eyes narrowing and nose flaring at the sudden scent of arousal permeating the small cabin.

 _Interesting._ His wolf purred, perking up at the scent.

It took effort but he ignored the way Stiles was broadcasting his interest. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, the shaman was horrid at hiding his feelings, though he was getting better. Peter tried not to let it go to his head, after all, he wasn’t blind to the fact that his family was all aesthetically pleasing. More often than not, Stiles was a roiling mess of hormones.

Still, it made his wolf preen.

Stiles seemed to be embarrassed by his reaction and quickly stood up to push Peter out of the cabin. He resisted only a little, digging his feet in and chuckling at Stiles’ futile attempts to move him. Eventually he gave in, letting Stiles shut him out with a quick traced command on the palm of his hand. He’d found early on in their partnership that he had a bit of a weak spot for the man and would give in to almost anything he wanted if he persisted.

_I need wood. Get me some small pieces._

And with that, he quickly retreated back into the cabin, the smell of mortification following him. It always amused Peter when Stiles tried so hard to control his emotions around them, knowing they could smell it. Yet, he always seemed to fail when it came to Peter.

He’d gotten a little better at not broadcasting his emotions as much but when it came to Peter, he always seemed conflicted. His emotions would come in wild, intense surges.

Stiles had told him once that he ‘annoyed the very soul out of him’ and Peter took great pleasure in keeping it that way.

Stiles was having quite a few issues.

Most of them were not, in fact, because of the mask on his face and the curse on his magic.

Nope, a majority of his current problems came from interactions with the infuriating blue eyed wolf. Peter was, to put it quite simply, an unrepentant tease and devious trickster. He seemed to just naturally exude this effortless allure that frustrated Stiles with how much he hated and liked it.

He tried to convince himself he had everything under control and his brain decided to suddenly remembered another incident recently where Peter ‘accidentally’ spilled one of their concoctions on him and proceeded to meticulously rub his chest clean. He’d insisted on doing it because “oh no Stiles, what if it’s toxic? We can’t have it affecting your beautiful hands as well.”

That had been a painfully hard, humiliating hour.

Sighing, Stiles stared at the green, goopy paste he had moved to a clean bowl. It seemed to bubble sadly at him and he couldn’t help but agree. His current situation was just rife with dilemmas.

His mood darkened when he thought of the possible solutions Peter wanted to try. He hadn’t told the wolf that he believed the way to break the curse was for him to bleed for the Hales. It made sense to him, but a part of him knew Peter wouldn’t accept that. Peter seemed to be more focused on methods outside of hurting Stiles. This usually meant it involved hurting others, whether it be animals or humans.

The animals, he could stomach, because at the very least they could still eat them and the meat wouldn’t be wasted.

But humans-

Stiles hugged himself tightly, not sure if the sudden chill that swept over him was from the cold air or something deeper. The shaman wasn’t sure he could go through with killing a human again, especially not if it was for selfish reasons. It was true that he desperately wanted to break the curse, but even with the guarantee that the people they would sacrifice to the Goddess would be enemies of her reign, he couldn’t go through with it.

As time went on, it became more and more clear to him that he’d killed someone. In the beginning, he’d been too focused on Scott, the desperation and dread clouding his judgement. Yet here, living peacefully with the Hales where they treated him like an equal and not a murderer, he couldn’t help but feel unworthy.

He didn’t regret what he did, he’d wondered time and time again if maybe he could have found another way, maybe he could have-

Maybes didn’t change his actions.

He missed his family, he missed Scott, Melissa, and most of all his father.

They had been close, father and son, protector and shaman. His father had been the guard of the village, making sure everyone followed the rules and no one got too rowdy. Stiles had used his magic to keep those with ill will away from the village. They had been the perfect duo.

He didn’t regret the choice he made, but that didn’t stop the overwhelming sense of guilt and the certainty that his father would never forgive him for this.

You reap what you sow, and Stiles certainly suffered the consequences.

He sometimes had nightmares.

Fever dreams of the way he had lured the man in with sweet promises, knowing he was a criminal on the run. He’d offered him refuge, a place to hide. The man had trusted him precisely because he was a shaman and they were protectors. The man may had been an unrepentant killer and child abuser, but when Stiles had covered his mouth and slit his throat, he hadn’t felt any different from the criminal. They were one and the same.

There was a darkness within him, something he’d tried to hide under clever words and mischievous smirks. Maybe that was why he was so drawn to Peter. It felt like the wolf understood him. Even without words, Peter seemed to know him in ways his family never had. They never saw the darkest parts of him.

Peter knew, and he’d seen enough that any sane person would run the other way. Yet, the wolf had done nothing but sidle closer, his hands warm and gentle.

Right on cue, he felt a hand grasp his neck, the touch grounding him and breaking out of the hole he’d fallen into. Peter’s hand tightened briefly, comforting, before retreating as if nothing had happened.

Stiles didn’t meet his eyes, but he knew without looking that the wolf was concerned. Peter knew him well enough not to mention his mood.

“I brought the wood you wanted,” Peter spoke, his voice gentler than his usual teasing tone. “So demanding.”

Peter sighed, dropping the wood pieces on the table in front of Stiles before leaning in to watch as Stiles carefully painted marks onto the wood.

“I can’t imagine how much worse you were when you had a voice.”

The wolf murmured the words right into his ear and Stiles suppressed a shudder at the quite rumble of Peter’s voice. He scowled, flicking a glob of the mixture onto Peter’s face.

It landed on his right cheek and the wolf blinked at him in astonishment for a few moments before growling and grabbing Stiles’ face in one clawed hand.

He aggressively rubbed his right cheek against Stiles’ neck, smearing him with the mixture. Stiles couldn’t stop the whine he let out, a low hum in the back of his throat at the pleasant burn from Peter’s beard that pooled heat lower. Stiles winced, trying to shove the wolf away before he noticed his involuntary reaction to the sensation.

Peter relented, chuckling and looking quite pleased with himself as he leaned back, putting some space between them.

“You reap what you sow.” Peter drawled out slowly, his words meant to tease.

Stiles flinched back, his heart thudding as it hit too close to the thoughts he’d had before Peter came in.

The wolf frowned at the reaction, hating the sudden hurt smell coming from the shaman and the way he’d tensed up.

“Was it something I said?” Peter asked carefully, his hand hovering, everything in him screaming to just hold the boy close and comfort him until he smelled less like sorrow.

Stiles shook his head, flashing a weak smile in Peter’s direction. His hand gently massaged the spot Peter had rubbed, the beard burn creating a massive red patch on his neck.

It was a lie, the skip in his heart betraying him, but Peter kept silent. He’d let the boy cool down on his own, it wouldn’t do to push him too far too fast. Stiles had many walls and it would take a lot of time and patience before the shaman let anyone close enough to look past them.

Stiles quietly went back to his paste, tracing letters and symbols into the wood pieces. The repetitive process seemed to calm him down and soon, they were both relaxed and calm again.

  


“What are those?” Peter asked curiously, hand reaching out to pick one up. Stiles quickly slapped his hand away, glaring at the wolf until Peter backed away from the charms.

Stiles waved a hand at him in a gesture that Peter has come to understand as his way of saying ‘wait patiently.’

Peter snapped his teeth playfully at Stiles fingers, grinning when the shaman jerked his hand back and looked utterly offended.

“Treat me like a dog and I might just bite the hand that feeds me.” Peter suggested menacingly, though he did pull out a chair and sit a safe distance away from where Stiles was working diligently. Soon enough, Peter hummed a few listless notes before asking a question he’d been curious about.

“So why is it that you understand our language?”

Stiles stopped writing long enough to shoot him a questioning look, head bowing back down to squint at the marks he’d made on the wood. It was almost done. Just a few more finishing touches…

Sighing happily, he set aside the fifth piece he’d completed, knowing he still had a few more left.

Peter continued, almost as if he was talking to himself as he tried to figure it out. He leaned his chair back precariously, rocking it back and forth with an easy sort of balance that humans envied.

“It’s pretty clear to me that you know the old language, the one spoken by shamans and those select privileged few. It’s the only language you know how to write. Yet, you’re able to understand the common language when we speak it. Does this mean you can also speak in the common language?”

Letting out a huff of irritation at the wolf, Stiles set down his work long enough to wave his hand at Peter. He knew the asshole would not give up until he got an answer. The man valued information, and Stiles was something new and shiny to him. This wasn’t the first time Peter had asked a question about his lifestyle and his work as a shaman. Most of the time he answered the wolf. Sometimes, it took a bit more teasing before he gave up an answer.

Standing up languidly, Peter made his way over to Stiles like a predator stalking his prey, his movements fluid. It always unnerved Stiles how silently the wolves could walk. The way they moved was nowhere near human. It’s a miracle the villagers haven’t noticed by now, or maybe they did and chose to ignore it.

Peter offered up his hand almost eagerly, though the wolf did his best to hide it. Stiles rolled his eyes, a small smile lighting his lips at the sight. Though the man was older than him by quite a few years (once Peter had learned of Stiles age he’d taken to calling him ‘boy’ mockingly), a lot of times Peter was almost childish in his excitability.

Stiles would never admit it was kind of adorable.

Stiles held the wolf’s hand in his, his grip warm and firm. The contrast between their hands always fascinated Stiles. While Stiles’ fingers were long and thin, almost pale, Peter’s were strong and thick. The wolf was tanned, much like the rest of the Hales and with the rest of his many attractive physical qualities, he looked very similar to the statues of gods he’d seen in other villages.

Though he was loyal to the Goddess herself, Peter was certainly tempting.

Shaking himself out of that train of thought before it got worse, he traced words into Peter’s palm, now familiar with the rough texture and the lines of his hands.

_As the shaman and sometimes diplomat of my village, I often had to greet newcomers. It soon became clear to us that we couldn’t do that if most of our visitors spoke a different language than us. Our village is old and very secluded, all of us new the language of the Goddess. I learned the common language in order to better communicate with the rest of the world._

Stiles paused, smiling fondly when he remembered how Scott and his father had struggled with him, trying to learn a language so different from their own. It was only due to the kindness of their visitors that they managed to learn as quickly as they did. Some had even left interesting books for them to practice with, reading to gain a better grasp of the language.

Some of my people followed, striving to learn the common language.

“Hm,” Peter hummed thoughtfully as he rubbed a thumb through the spot on his palm that Stiles had written on. Just as Stiles was about to turn back to his charms and continue where he left off, Peter leaned in closer, a smirk on his lips.

Stiles regarded him warily, a little tense at the other man’s proximity.

“Don’t you want to know why I have the necessary knowledge to decipher your language?”

Stiles cocked his head to the side, frowning. He didn’t know what Peter wanted, except that the wolf was staring at him intently, his eyes dark. Of course, he’d noticed that no one else in the compound seemed to understand his language. The first time he’d realized that he’d been quite surprised. He’d assumed that since Peter understood him everyone else would.

Imagine his confusion when he’d tried to communicate with the other Hales in the same way and had received either amused or equally confused looks. It wasn’t until literally no one understood what he was writing in their palms that he’d given up.

He’d been curious, of course, but he figured if it was something worth knowing Peter would have told him.

Tentatively, he reached out and held Peter’s hand, slowly tracing letters into the palm of his hand.

_Do you want me to ask?_

Peter let out a huff of breath and pouted, slightly irked that Stiles hadn’t asked. A part of it was because he wanted to show off but mostly he realized that Stiles didn’t seem all too interested in him.

Peter was constantly peppering Stiles with questions, even though the shaman was the one who was currently mute. At first, he’d assumed that was his thirst for knowledge rearing its ugly head. With such a new source of information, he was bound to interrogate the shaman. However, over the course of the few days they’d known each other, Peter quickly realized that a large part of it was his desire to know everything about Stiles.

Not because he was a shaman, but just because both Peter and his wolf wanted to know more about Stiles.

It seemed that sentiment wasn’t reciprocated and it didn’t feel good knowing that Stiles apparently didn’t find him interesting enough.

Stiles, for his part, hadn’t asked because he knew he was a guest in the Hale pack. Bothering one of the Hales, especially the Second, with constant questions would not only unbalance his precarious position in the pack but also it would seem extremely suspicious. A mysterious shaman shows up and suddenly starts asking a lot of questions? Definitely suspicious. He wanted them to trust him.

He had been covertly learning about Peter and the Hales through hanging out with Derek, Cora and Laura. Those three were more forthcoming with their information and had taken a liking to the mischievous shaman.

Stiles was pulled out of his musings when Peter pulled his hand away, or at least tried to. Stiles tightened his grip on the wolf, staring straight into eyes that flashed blue. Peter’s expression was shuttered and carefully blank, and Stiles knew it was because of him that the wolf was hiding.

_I do want to know more about you._

Stiles stared at Peter’s hand as he wrote, knowing without looking that his face was flushed and his ears were burning red.

He felt a finger lift up his chin and Stiles looked into eyes shining with an emotion he couldn’t decipher, though the smug smirk on Peter’s face gave him away.

“All you had to do was ask, sweetheart.”

Stiles scowled and pulled away, the flush hidden by his mask, swatting at the wolf. Peter laughed loudly at that. He knew how much it embarrassed Stiles to be called pet names but that was exactly why he did it. The shaman just had such delicious reactions, it was too tempting.

“Well,” Peter started speaking, pulling his chair close again as he watched Stiles go back to tracing symbols. “As the Hale Second I’m in charge of a lot of pack relations both within this area and in others. Throughout my travels I’ve helped many creatures out of some unsavory situations and sometimes aided them in getting rid of some pesky enemies.”

Peter leaned back, sitting straight as if presenting to his mate as he proudly spoke.

“Needless to say, I’ve garnered quite a handful of favors. I merely used a few of them to gain ownership of some old shaman books. I taught myself the language, through the books and the translations provided.”

Stiles frowned, his expression troubled as his movements slowed until he put down the piece he’d been working on. That was not the reaction Peter had expected. He’d wanted Stiles to be impressed, not conflicted and almost…angry.

Stiles grabbed Peter’s hand and the wolf’s face cleared up in understanding as Stiles wrote.

_So these books you took, they were never yours? Shaman books are sacred, many are texts that we spend our entire lives writing and protecting. The language of the Goddess was gifted to us and we have the choice to gift it to others. Yet you took yours by force._

Stiles faltered in his writing, as if hesitating before continuing.

_That is not being resourceful or smart, that’s cowardly and wrong. Our language is a gift, not a commodity for you to win and show off._

Peter stared at the shaman as he finished writing, his eyes meeting the wolf’s with an impressive amount of fierceness and disappointment. His wolf whined low, head pressed against the ground and ears pulled back.

“I apologize,” Peter spoke slowly, picking his words carefully. He was slightly stunned at this development, when he’d just wanted to show off a little. Yet, he understood why Stiles felt like he did. He felt ashamed, knowing that his pursuit for knowledge had unknowingly disregarded the customs and traditions of those he aimed to learn from. “It won’t happen again. Sometimes I get caught up in wanting to know, whether it be languages or traditions, and I don’t think before I take action.”

Peter squeezed Stiles hand once, tightly as he tried to convey his sincerity. His eyes were solemn as he spoke, his face drawn and without a hint of humor.

“This does not excuse my behavior, but I hope you can believe me when I say I meant no harm.”

Stiles gaze softened at that, and he squeezed Peter’s hand just as tightly. He raised his other hand to brush gentle fingers against the furrow in Peter’s brow, soothing the harsh lines. Peter could only sit there, slightly dazed and mouth hanging open slightly at the touch. It was light, yet it’d been the first time Stiles had initiated contact like this. Besides the necessary hand holding Stiles had to do in order to communicate with Peter, he never touched the older wolf in such a casual way. The boy was scent marking him, and Peter was too shocked to comment on it.

He didn’t have to spell it out for Peter to know he was forgiven.

Peter perked up then, a sudden brilliant idea came to mind, and if he had a literal tail it’d be wagging excitedly.

“Would you like to keep the books?” A part of him was screaming at him, wondering what the hell he was doing offering one of their most valuable collections to the shaman they’d barely met. Still, he couldn’t repress the urge to make things right and to make the shaman happy. “I can’t read a lot of it anyways, most of it was not translated and the characters in them are too messy to decipher.”

Stiles shook his head at the offer, satisfied already with Peter’s apology.

_You don’t have to give it to me. No matter how you received the books, they are yours now and as long as you treat them with respect, I don’t think anyone would mind you keeping them._

Stiles paused, tilting his head to the side as he thought.

_I would like to see it though, if you wouldn’t mind. All shaman’s keep a record of their magic and while mine is still in my village…I’d like to see if the book you have can offer some insight on my current condition._

“Of course,” Peter replied, tone soft. He smirked suddenly, unable to resist. “What is mine is yours, beloved.” He took the opportunity to turn their hands, still clasped together loosely, until their fingers were intertwined.

For the second time that day, Stiles flushed a beautiful red as Peter chuckled. This time, he dodged the blow that Stiles sent his way, standing up and stepping back gracefully.

“I’ll go grab our lunch, it’s getting a bit late. I’ll be right back.”

With a wink that Stiles studiously ignored, the wolf was out the door, humming as he went.

Stiles slammed his head onto the table, mindful of the materials there and hissing at the way the mask knocked into his face at the movement.

He really hated how much Peter affected him, whether it was with his sly words or his wicked smirks, it left him feeling flustered and often speechless. It was a good thing he was literally mute or he wouldn’t have an excuse for his stunned silences.

Breathing deeply a few times to calm his racing heart, Stiles sat back up and stretched a little before continuing his work. Once these charms were done, he would make sure Peter would be the first to test them.

He smiled, already imagining the many ways this could prove to be entertaining. It was the motivation he needed to finish the last few pieces and he made sure to make an extra few for the plan he had in mind.

He would laugh evilly if he could, but for now, he settled for wiggling a little excitedly in his seat, grateful the wolf wasn’t around to see him do that.


	6. And

Peter stepped into the cabin with all the grace of a predator, his steps silent. He carefully set down the two bowls of meat and vegetables he’d gathered onto the table with a soft _thunk_.

The wolf tilted his head to the side, regarding Stiles curiously as he breathed softly, his chest rising and falling with a steady pace. Stiles was asleep, his body slumped in the chair and arms still resting on the table. Like this, eyes no longer tense and wary, he looked peaceful. It made him seem younger, softer and innocent.

Peter pulled his chair closer and sat down on it, placing an elbow on the desk as he rested his head on his hand. It certainly wasn’t proper etiquette, to watch while someone slept. There were probably many things wrong with this scenario, but when he saw Stiles like this, mouth slightly open and relaxed, he felt nothing but a growing sense of fondness for this young man.

Involuntarily, almost as if in a trance, Peter reached a hand out, the back of his hands gently brushing across Stiles’ cheek. The mask covered most of his face, but it was enough.

He pulled away soon after, catching himself slipping yet again. Peter lowered his eyes, putting his hands firmly in his lap and clasping them. He stared at his own hands, rubbing absentmindedly at the tips of his fingers. It always amazed him how at any moment, his normal blunt human fingernails could change into sharp, deadly claws.

Still, he remembered vividly the sensation of ripped flesh, the warmth of fresh blood and the tang of metallic liquid.

He’d been enjoying Stiles’ company. The man was able to keep up with his banter in a way he’d never experienced with another. He was wicked and clever, his smiles promising retribution and his unspoken words a sharpened knife.

It was a breath of fresh air, the dewey chill of morning and the way the moon pulled him.

Yes, the shaman reminded him of the moon, his moods a constant ebb and flow, his eyes distant and ancient. Sometimes, he seemed untouchable, as if his soul did not exist on the same plane as theirs. Yet, when he met Peter’s eyes, it was with welcoming warmth and devious smirks. It always made the wolf feel special, as if he was privy to a side of Stiles that not many had the opportunity to see.

Maybe it was the fact that despite all his talks of Stiles’ usefulness as a shaman, Peter didn’t want a shaman.

He wanted _Stiles_.

And that was what scared him the most. The fact that this man held so much power over his wolf, even if he was unaware.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a breath of humorless laughter as he contemplated his current predicament. He’d spent years suppressing his wolf, allowing it to run free when it came to eliminating enemies, yet always keeping a close watch on it.

He remembered as if it was yesterday, the first time he’d killed.

It had been for Talia, it was _always_ because of her.

It had been a normal day for them, just like any other. Talia had always been passionate and full of love. She’d found her mate early on and after a happy ceremony, pregnancy had come soon after.

She was loving and she’d never been as wary as Peter. Even as a teenager, Peter was careful. His sister seemed to believe the best when it came to humans, but Peter had read and heard enough to know that humans have killed for lesser reasons.

If they found out who or what they were, there would be no stopping a massacre.

Ever since he was young his parents had been training him to be Talia’s second. When he was a child, he hadn’t fully understood what exactly it entailed but as he grew older, he started hating his future position in the pack. As the Second, he was a silent killer first and a diplomat second. He would become the pack and most importantly the Alpha’s secret weapon.

He hated it.

He had no interest in such things, preferring to indulge in dalliances with the boys and girls in the village, many of them hormone driven like him.

One of his new toys, a casual friend he’d made, had followed him home that day. He wanted to play some more, and Peter had relented, pressing the boy close and up against a nearby tree. He sucked harsh bruises into the boy’s throat and it wasn’t until his gasp was one of fear, rather than pleasure that Peter’s eyes shot open. When he glanced back, it was to the sight of Talia in beta form, obviously expecting an alteration rather than the almost risqué sight she’d stumbled upon.

She quickly dropped her aggressive stance, her eyes shocked and full of panic. Her hand dropped to her belly, round with her first child.

Peter had slowly turned back around, trying to gauge the boy’s reaction to the sight. His eyes burned with fear and disgust, and it was in that moment that Peter knew there would be no easy way out of this situation.

He’d tried explaining it as a trick of the light, and when the boy had tried to run, he’d hesitated.

Peter looked back and met Talia’s eyes, noticing the way she had her teeth bared, eyes flashing yellow. She was trying to fight her instincts to protect her unborn child and rid them of the danger. She desperately met his eyes, and Peter hated her with an intensity that scared even him.

Because the look she gave him was one of certainty and cowardice.

She knew he would do it, and Peter understood his place as the Second of the pack. She would never have to dirty her hands, because Peter would do it for her. Just like how their parents always saw him as a tool for the future alpha, Talia now regarded him in the same way.

He’d believed that she didn’t think of him like that. He’d believed she was the kind sister he wanted her to be.

But this was never about what he wanted. It was about what _she_ wanted.

And what she wanted was death.

Instinctually, Peter grabbed the boy’s arm, tugging him close. He’d tensed but when he saw it was Peter, he’d relaxed. He opened his mouth as if to ask a question but Peter never heard the answer. His wolf took over and where before, soft human lips had touched equally fragile skin, this time there was only pain and the satisfying crunch of a broken trachea.

He hadn’t been able to control his wolf. The animalistic part of him had snarled and demanded he protect his sister and her unborn child.

And as the boy’s screams died out into choked gurgles, Peter threw his head back and howled his sorrow and triumph for all to know. The taste of blood seemed to strangle him with it’s thickness, the scent of tears and betrayal filling the air.

That was the moment he became the Second. When he had sealed his fate.

Talia had stared, something terrified in her gaze and tears streaming down her face. His yellow eyes glowed as he met her gaze and slowly darkened until an eerie bottomless blue was left behind.

Maybe there was a chance they could have convinced him to stay quiet. Maybe there was a chance he was a good person and wouldn’t have told the village.

Peter couldn’t take that chance and his wolf had agreed. He knew logically they were the same age but the boy had looked so _young_ , so innocent.

That boy was the first of many.

From then on, Peter kept his wolf under constant supervision. He kept a tight leash on his wolf. He would never lose control like that again, not if he could help it. He would prove through his actions that he wasn’t an animal and a slave to his instincts.

Stiles was an anomaly because he tested Peter’s restraint. The boy was lucky that his wolf had no ill will towards him, otherwise, Peter would have had a much harder time letting Stiles live.

A clattering sound roused Peter from his memories and he lifted his head up. Amused, he watched as Stiles reached out to the bowl of food with his eyes still closed. The moment his fingers made contact, he quickly pulled it close and leaned over the table hunched over. Stiles’ eyes shot open at the first shovel of food in his mouth and he made little huffing sounds that sounded like he was having difficulty breathing as he ate at a truly astonishing pace.

“It’s like you were raised by wolves.” Peter drawled out with a smirk, only grinning wider at the eye roll he received in return.

Peter picked up his own bowl and ate at a much more sedate pace, enjoying the silence and occasional happy huff from Stiles. As a werewolf, it made it easier to understand Stiles. He could smell his emotions and tell from the smallest twitch what he wanted.

The others had teased him lightly, saying that his understanding of Stiles did not extend to the rest of the Hales. In fact, the Hales still had trouble communicating with Stiles, even with the added benefit of supernatural senses. Peter, on the other hand, could tell if Stiles was happy or sad by the little huffs of breath he let out.

It wasn’t obsessive, no matter what Talia claimed. He was merely observant.

Stiles finished his food with a loud clatter, setting the bowl and utensils down on the table. He grabbed the charms he’d been working on, a bundle of them with strings tied around each individual piece of wood. The strings were a greenish brown and seemed to be some sort of vine dipped in some liquid that Stiles hadn’t bothered explaining to Peter.

Stiles lifted his chin up in a ‘let’s go’ gesture. Peter looked down at his half finished bowl of food and sighed, grumbling a little as he placed it gently on the table and followed Stiles out.

Stiles only smiled lightly, in a way that Peter has come to decipher as his secretive one. It usually meant nothing good for the wolf, as he was the victim of most of Stiles schemes.

As he suspected, Stiles led him a little farther from the Hale cabins, until they stepped into the forest. They were just within the tree line, deep enough that they couldn’t easily be seen but still visible to an extent.

Peter watched warily as Stiles walked up to a tree stump and carefully put down the bundle of charms. He turned to face Peter almost cheerfully his eyes glinting and a grin on his face.

“…What are we doing out here?” Peter asked carefully, his eyes narrowed and stance slightly tense as Stiles walked several feet away from him and picked up a sizable rock.

Still grinning madly, Stiles pointed to the charms, a triumph air about him.

“You want to test out the charms, but why would you need me…?” Peter paused, as Stiles gave an exasperated huff and approached him again, grabbing his hand and writing on it.

_Don’t move._

With that, he backed up until he was back in his original position. Stiles winked at Peter and it was only due to Peter’s tight control over his wolf that he was able to stay still when, without warning, Stiles threw the rock at him.

It hit alarmingly close to his genitals and he grimaced at the dull, throbbing pain. He could already tell without looking that there would be a bruise on his abdominal area, even if it was rapidly healing.

Stiles looked contemplative for a moment, a finger on his cheek as he tried to suppress his grin. He then brought his fist down onto the palm of his hand, his face slack in a faked expression of epiphany as he grabbed one of the charms and wrapped Peter’s fingers around it.

This time, Peter scowled at him when Stiles picked up the rock.

“There better be a point to all this or I swear to the Goddess-“

Peter trailed off, slack jawed as he watched almost in slow motion at the arc of the rock, the way it was clearly aimed for his head. He didn’t move, because a part of him knew Stiles would never hurt him severely. Still, he couldn’t help his ingrained response to flinch slightly and close his eyes tight.

He heard a sharp crack but when nothing else happened, Peter opened his eyes, looking around for the rock. He looked behind him, expecting it to have flown right past him. Perhaps Stiles has aimed too high.

Befuddled, he tilted his head as he noticed the rock a few feet in front of him. Picking it up slowly, his thumb ran over the rough edges, dirt coating his palm. It was just an ordinary rock, yet there was something off about its trajectory.

Stiles approached him and gently lifted his other hand, the one holding the charm. The shaman pried his still tense fingers open and he watched as the now broken charm was revealed.

It had lost it’s green coloring, the paste that had been painted on the wood now a dark brown. The entire thing was snapped in the middle, and Peter realized that was the sharp crack he’d heard.

He opened his mouth to apologize to Stiles, a bit of shame welling up in him when he realized he’d broken the charm the shaman had worked so hard on. Stiles shook his head and gave him another charm, taking the broken one and throwing it onto the ground.

He wrote on his palm.

_This time, watch what happens._

Peter stood still as Stiles took the rock from him, again walking until he was several feet away.

When Stiles threw the rock, he kept a firm gaze on it. He saw the way it almost hit him, his eyes almost going cross eyed before, with a sharp crack, the rock was blown back the way it came, landing a few feet in front of Peter. The wolf looked down and saw that the wooden charm was cracked in half.

Peter was astonished, this was the first time he’d seen defensive magic of this kind. Most magic required more than just some plant paste to work. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that despite Stiles’ general demeanor, he was a powerful shaman even when cursed.

Stiles finally decided to take pity on the wolf and explain.

_These are for your family. For the Hales. The charms only work once and can deflect any attack with ill intent._

Stiles paused, looking down and not meeting Peter’s eyes as he kicked lightly at the dirt.

_I want to protect your pack. It’s not much but I hope it will be enough._

Peter couldn’t help the smile that grew at Stiles’ words. The wolf wrapped his hand around the one still tracing his, pulling the shaman close. Stiles leaned back, startled as his chest collided with Peter’s and his mask almost stabbed Peter in the neck. His amber eyes were swimming with an emotion Peter couldn’t identify. This close, he could smell the warm scent of sleep still clinging to Stiles and the pleasant undertone of the woods. Both mixed nicely and created a combination that appealed to Peter.

He resisted the urge to inhale deeply, the tempting expanse of Stiles’ neck just within reach.

Instead, he leaned forward until he met Stiles’ eyes, looming over the shaman almost menacingly.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do for the pack, but pray tell, what was the purpose of hitting me with that rock the first time if you knew the charms would work?”

Peter couldn’t see Stiles’ expression because of the mask, but he definitely relished in the sheepish panic Stiles’ eyes revealed to him. The shaman tried to step back but was essentially trapped within Peter’s grasp.

His eyes darted around, as if looking for an escape and Peter couldn’t resist. Stiles actions screamed of startled prey.

“I’ll put this behind us if we make it even.”

Peter used the hand not holding Stiles hand to brush gently through his tangled locks. Tugging Stiles’ head to the side, his lips brushed the shaman’s neck.

He felt Stiles swallow hard and he grinned, his mouth full of fangs, something he knew Stiles could feel as the rapid pitter patter of his heart increased beneath his lips.

“A bruise for a bruise.”

Peter paused, loosening his grip slightly. He knew this was a dangerous game he was playing, but he wasn’t about to force Stiles into playing with him if he wasn’t willing. He liked his partners pliant and eager.

He carefully scented Stiles, exhaling over the stretch of his pale neck, his wolf purring continuously at the way they were marking him with their scent. He could smell the boy’s arousal too, and his hesitance.

“Stiles.” Peter spoke again, his words a whisper on the fragile neck. “I need an answer.”

Stiles startled at the words and for a moment, the shaman tensed. With a growing sense of disappointment, Peter sighed, taking that as a no. Just as he was pulling back, a hand cautiously slid through his hair, pushing him back towards the shaman’s neck.

Then Stiles nodded.

The wolf wanted to howl in triumph, but Peter settled for pressing his grin against Stiles’ neck, enjoying the moment before sinking blunt human teeth lightly into the flesh there. He sucked hard, wanting almost desperately to leave a mark, to stake a claim.

Stiles’ legs buckled and Peter hummed a comforting note in the back of his throat as he gently guided them until they were both kneeling on the forest floor. Stiles’ hands were not idle, sometimes tugging at his hair or pressing him closer, and other times clawing at his shoulders when the sensations became too much.

With one last nibble, Peter let go with an audible pop, his eyes glowing a possessive blue at the dark bruise he’d left behind.

“Well then,” Peter stood up, dusting himself off and smirking at the dazed look Stiles wore. He could smell the shaman’s helpless arousal, and while his wolf preened, he knew they had to stop here before it got out of hand. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Let’s get those charms to the rest of the pack.”

Peter walked over to the tree stump, willing away his erection through sheer force of will. He picked up all the charms and when he turned around, Stiles still hadn’t moved from the spot he’d left him at. He seemed dazed, his eyes staring unseeing into the forest and the flush on his cheeks prominent against the pale skin.

“Stiles.”

The shaman jolted upright, stumbling as he winced at the head rush from standing up too fast. His hand came up to rub at his neck and he paused when he came into contact with the bruise. It would have concerned Peter more if the scent of his arousal hadn’t increased at that small hint of pain.

It seemed his boy had quite a variety of kinks.

Stiles gathered up the charms and stopped for a moment, taking deep breaths. Once he had collected himself, he marched determinedly through the tree line to the cabins.

Peter followed, only slightly smug as Stiles walked a little awkwardly, still affected by his arousal.

The Hales accepted the charms graciously, charmed by the shaman’s attempts to keep them safe.

They didn’t comment on the obvious scent marking on Stiles, as well as the bruise, though many of them did give Peter disapproving looks. Still, they knew better than to get in the way of something or someone he wanted.

They never worried for long because Peter always lost interest in his partners. None of them lasted more than a week or so.

Talia was the only one that saw the way Peter looked at Stiles, as if he was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. As if he was someone worth knowing.

She hoped, for all their sake, that this wouldn’t backfire on them. 


	7. You

Stiles’ tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek in concentration. He narrowed his eyes at the tree, carefully carving sigils into the trunk. He mouthed silent prayers of respect to the trees, thanking them for their sacrifice and apologizing for the pain he was inflicting upon them.

It was times like these that he wished he still had his voice. Without it, he couldn’t talk to the plants. He couldn’t literally talk to them, but he liked to believe it helped soothe them.

The knife he had was one gifted to him from Andrew, who he learned dabbled in blacksmithing. It was a very human practice, since the wolves didn’t exactly need weapons when they had built in claws. Andrew’s skills still came in handy though. He provided all of them with personalized tools for their needs.

For Stiles, when he’d first hesitantly requested the blade, Andrew had shut himself inside for a day, designing the perfect carving tool.

Stiles had tried to tell him that he didn’t need to go that far, but Peter had taken great joy in preventing him from communicating with Andrew until he’d finished the blueprints.

Now he had a wicked blade, the metal part sharpened to a deadly point and slanted specifically for carving. The handle made up of most of the body, it’s handle thicker than most to allow maximum grip.

In the village, he had his own carving tools. He could admit that Andrew’s blade was much more convenient though. It took some getting used to but soon he was carving with an ease he wish he’d had back when he still had his powers.

Stepping back, he tilted his head to the side, regarding the mark he’d made with heavy scrutiny. Nodding to himself with satisfaction, he moved on to the next tree. The tree line that separated the clearing from the rest of the forest were mostly marked up by his blade, almost all of them bearing a mark.

The past few weeks, he’d been helping around the compound as much as he could. He’d gone to Granny Hale and learned how to dye cloth, a task that was much harder than he had anticipated and left him sore for days. He’d helped the quiet druid gather herbs he needed, a task that Stiles greatly enjoyed. Despite the curse, he still had an affinity with the forest and the plants called out to him when he needed them most.

He’d played with the teenagers almost every day, their endless energy draining but welcoming. Laura and Cora were fierce girls, and he had no doubt they would grow up strong like their mother. Derek on the other hand had participated in any inane games they played, whether it was fetch (a game Stiles enjoyed and the rest indulged him) or tag (a game the Hales _really_ liked as he was almost always the prey), for the first few weeks but soon distanced himself.

While before he sassed back at Laura and Peter when they made comments, he now seemed more distracted. Recently, Stiles was seeing him less and less. He hadn’t used his shaman eyes since that first time but one time Derek came in with slumped shoulders and a lost expression and Stiles hadn’t been able to resist.

What he saw was horrible, almost a miasma of dark intent weighed down Derek’s shoulders. They showed themselves as handprints, some gripping, some just a few fingers, but nevertheless Derek was marked to hell and back. The color silver used to remind him of the moon and its cool touch. While before Derek’s aura was a mix of vibrant green and yellows, it was now subdued by the heavy silver.

Stiles was becoming increasingly concerned at Derek’s constant disappearances and he could tell the rest of the family was worried as well. The shaman hoped he was just overreacting. After all, the wolves had super noses. Surely, if there was something wrong they’d be able to sniff it out.

Stiles had tried, once, to ask Peter but he couldn’t get the words out. How was he supposed to explain something only shamans would understand? No, it was better to observe for now and gather enough evidence to present a compelling case to them.

His current predicament were the sigils he’d carved. They were correct and meticulously recreated from memory, yet they would basically be useless if not activated. He didn’t have enough power to activate them, and he knew he would need more blood in order to do it. Before, he could do it by drawing power from the earth, but with the current state of his magic, blood magic was his only choice.

Stiles’ plan was to set up the basic sigils and hopefully convince Deaton to try and pour his magic into the marks. If they succeeded, it would alert Stiles if anyone with ill intent crossed the border.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his neck almost longingly. The bruise on his skin had long faded, and a part of him had been trying to keep busy precisely to avoid talking to Peter. Stiles was never alone, opting to try and always be in the presence of another Hale, helping them out with one thing or another. If Peter noticed his deliberate avoidance, he didn’t comment on it.

Stiles was, in a word, confused. His mind was a mess and his emotions were in turmoil. After that incident which left him embarrassed and uncomfortably hard, he didn’t know how to respond or what to do.

The wolf was a tactile person. Stiles knew, from the stories both the teenagers and adults had told him that Peter was someone who didn’t stay in a relationship. He moved from one person to the next, discarding them when he was bored.

Stiles, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. He fell hard and usually for a long time when it came to people he was fond of.

He remembered his first love, Lydia. He had been so sure they were meant to be, yet after the accident and she lost her voice, she had taken comfort in Jackson, the son of the village chief.

Sometimes, he would see the scars on her neck and wonder if it really was an accident. It had looked deliberate, as if she had tried to rip out her own vocal chords. In a way, she had succeeded because she never spoke again.

Stiles had devoted years of his life trying to develop a magical cure for her voice. He wanted to hear her laugh again. He wanted to listen to her speak, even if all she ever did was insult him. She was brilliant, and Stiles knew from the moment they’d met eyes after he’d found her bleeding from the throat, that she had wanted this to happen.

She had explained, through writing, that she was attacked by a wild animal. Stiles was the only one that saw her triumphant look as she was comforted and consoled, led away with bandages wrapped around her throat.

Before the accident, she had always looked one hair trigger away from screaming, her eyes wild and tortured. After the accident she was much calmer, a sense of peace around her. Stiles knew she probably didn’t want his cure, but he’d done it not for her but rather for himself. At the time he had blamed himself for not being there in time. Even if they weren’t together romantically, they’d still been tentative friends.

It was rather ironic now, that the cure he had created was useless on him and the one person it would work on didn’t want it.

It was precisely because he was this kind of person, foolish and devoted, that he knew he couldn’t be involved with Peter. The wolf wanted him, he wasn’t blind to his desires, but he could not allow anything to happen.

That incident in the forest had been a moment of weakness. He had given in to the attraction, to the spark he felt between them. It had been intoxicating and just as intense as he’d expected.

Peter had acted like usual, as if the way he’d marked Stiles was inconsequential. It irritated the shaman. He’d been tortured by thoughts of it and yet the perpetrator was not even a little fazed.

He couldn’t avoid being alone with the wolf forever though, and when Peter offhandedly suggested they go read the shaman books he’d gathered through his favors, Stiles had agreed.

He was determined to put the incident behind them. If Peter was going to act like it didn’t happen, he would do the same.

Peter took Stiles to a warehouse on the outskirts of the cabins. It was a moderate size, a one room building that served as a storage place for all the Hales.

The wolf led the way and he opened the door before gesturing for Stiles to go in ahead of him. The shaman had only hesitated for a moment, eyes darting nervously from Peter to the inside of the rather dark room before he had cautiously stepped in.

It was frustrating, this new wariness that Stiles had towards him.

Peter had enjoyed having Stiles relaxed and almost happy. The shaman had learned to trust the wolf, a fact that left both him and his wolf purring happily. After the incident in the forest, Stiles had become tense and jumpy around him.

He refused to admit it made him feel despondent and a little guilty. Stiles had agreed to it, but he could still understand the shaman would feel awkward afterwards.

He hoped that by offering the shaman books again, he could get Stiles mind away from what had happened. If this was how the shaman reacted to a hickey, he would have no hopes of getting him in his bed.

Peter frowned, wondering when the hell he’d started wanting Stiles in that way. Well, that was a lie. He’d wanted the shaman since he first saw him. Still, he hadn’t meant for his attraction to get so out of hand. He’d wanted to tease Stiles, but he knew his limits and he certainly wasn’t going to initiate any sort of sexual relationship with him when he was still technically an outsider.

He ignored the part of him that argued he’d taken people he’d barely known to bed before. Stiles wasn’t a one night stand or even a fling.

He was…different.

Peter didn’t know what exactly was different yet, but he was hoping to find out. Preferably before he scared the shaman away with his advances.

Sighing, he felt his wolf whine loudly, as if it too was unhappy with this development. Until Peter could figure out his own intentions towards Stiles and also learn enough about the shaman to fully trust him, he would have to rein in his naturally flirtatious comments.

Technically his wolf already trusted the man, Peter himself was still on the fence. As the Second, he had to be constantly vigilant. It didn’t matter how good of an ass Stiles had or how stunning his amber eyes were, he would still need to observe him carefully.

Ha, “observe”. He knew Talia would call it pining but she wasn’t here to make fun of him right now.

He scowled. Even in his own mind, his sister haunted him with her judgement.

Peter felt something brush against his arm and looked up to find Stiles staring at him with something akin to concern. The wolf smiled softly, his heart melting at the way Stiles bit his bottom lip, in a way Peter has come to know expressed the shaman’s nervousness.

He reached a hand out to thumb at Stiles’ bottom lip, freeing the flesh from its abuse. Or at least, that was his intention. He froze at the last second, his hand suspended in the air between them and Stiles glanced at it, then at his face in confusion and a bit of hurt.

Stiles huffed out a breath, turning around and stomping over to the pile of books in the corner, obviously done with this interaction.

He could tell Stiles was annoyed at his hesitance. While a part of him also lamented the now awkward moments between them, a greater part of him was relieved he had enough self control to stop before things got worse. Stiles was very flighty and if Peter pushed him too far, if he initiated too much affectionate contact, the shaman might clamp up and retreat into himself.

He had to be careful and plan his moves carefully.

They spent the afternoon reading through the books, Stiles commenting on interesting bits he found and asked questions where he could.

The books were odd, they seemed to be rather old and contained magic that Stiles had never seen before. Peter only had two of them but they revealed some fascinating information. It was definitely shaman magic and he was itching to try some of the spells.

He raised a hand up and touched his mask gently, feeling the bone and hating how he felt safe hidden behind this prison. It hid his face from the world and though he knew the wolves could smell his emotions, it was still an extra layer of anonymity he appreciated. The downside was that without his normal magic, he had no hope of performing any of these spells.

Stiles turned to the last page, closing the book as he finished reading. Throughout the pages, he’d noticed little pieces of paper stuck to the original book with Peter’s writing, small bits of translations and notes he’d taken. His hands traced the rough leather of the green book, the one that was more of a diary than an actual spell book.

His fingernails snagged against something and he frowned, running his fingertips gently across the back again.

Stiles glanced at Peter who was focused on the other shaman book, silent in concentration as he mouthed the foreign words.

Turning his attention back to the book, Stiles opened it until the inside of the back cover was shown to him. His eyes flashed slightly as he used his powers to try and figure out what it was.

If an aura of intent was strong enough it could last years, especially on items. Stiles could tell there was an illusion spell on the leather. While he felt that it was bumpy, to the human eye it looked completely normal.

With dulled gold eyes, he hummed as he traced the intent with his fingers. It was yellow, warm and soft, hints of green and the barest flashes of blue.

Someone had poured their heart and soul into this.

Stiles carefully felt around until he encountered a flap on the middle of the page. He carefully pulled it aside and reached his hand in deeper than was physically possible. His hands rummaged around and encountered a thin rope of some sort. He pulled it out and there, dangling in front of him was a necklace.

He hummed thoughtfully, turning it in his hands as he traced the design with gentle fingers. It was beautiful. The necklace seemed to be made of wood and it was carved into the shape of a small tree, branches weaving around a blue stone that was dull and almost lifeless.

Stiles could tell, that the stone was a container of some sort and the colors of intention told him this item was benign, most likely used for protection or to heighten the senses.

His attention was pulled back to the book when, on the flap he’d pulled aside, words appeared.

It was hard to read, mostly because of the rushed handwriting, but the general idea was that the original owner of this book had created it as a gateway to nature and to the soul.

Potentially, it could connect the wearer to the forest and if they were a normal human, allow them some magical powers.

His fingers ghosted over the last words, frowning at the mysterious ending.

_To replace what we have lost. We will have balance again, no matter the cost._

His heart thudded in his chest, mind racing as his fist clenched around the twine looped through the necklace. There was a possibility that he could use this. It wouldn’t be real, but it could allow him some access similar to his original powers. Even if he stayed cursed forever, he would be connected to the forest through the necklace.

There was an aching yearning inside of him, his eyes glazing over as he remembered how pure the forest had felt, how the call of the moon gentled the tide of his harsher moods, the sense of belonging and knowing the forest would always welcome him. He wanted it so badly but…

He turned to Peter, tapping him on the shoulder to grab his attention.

The wolf glanced up with curious eyes, leaning close with a hungry look when he noticed what Stiles had in his hand.

“What is that?” Peter carefully took the necklace from Stiles, shuddering at the abnormal coolness of the wood as he held onto it.

Stiles shrugged, watching with slightly glowing eyes as the intent in the necklace seemed to…shift. It startled him, because while everything in the world had some sort of aura, it was another thing altogether to see what should be an inanimate object show intent. It was pushing towards Peter, the colors flashing until it settled into a calm blue.

Peter, couldn’t see it but Stiles did and it concerned him. Still, this was a magical object and it meant no harm, in fact, it seemed to be slightly sentient.

Stiles gripped Peter’s hand as he wrote.

_It wants you to wear it._

Peter raised an eyebrow and let out a chuckle, clearly amused.

“You’re saying the necklace _wants_ me to wear it? Not sure if it’s different where you’re from Stiles, but here, objects aren’t usually alive.”

Stiles let out a frustrated breath, resisting the urge to smack the wolf.

_Just trust me. It’s not dangerous. The book said that whoever wears it will have a deeper connection to the forest and possibly gain some powers._

“Powers hm?” Peter hummed as he turned the necklace over in his hand, his eyes calculating and narrowed. He set his jaw, decision made, and put on the necklace.

They both held their breaths, expecting something, anything.

But nothing happened.

Stiles frowned, poking the necklace a few times even though it seemed content to stay where it was.

“That was rather anticlimactic.” Peter muttered, moving to take off the necklace.

But it didn’t move.

This time, they stared at the necklace for a few long moments before meeting eyes, befuddled and more than a little fearful.

Stiles tried to tug it over Peter’s head but it wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard he tugged. Finally, after a few stressful moments, they both sat back down, slightly winded.

They’d used all their considerable strength and it still refused to come off. Peter had even tried reasoning with it, a scenario Stiles would have found hilarious if he wasn’t so terrified for Peter’s well being.

If anything happened to Peter because of this stupid necklace it would be on him. He should’ve just left it alone, but a part of him still believed that it meant no harm. It seemed intent on staying where it was and soon, they both accepted that it would be there to stay.

“Well,” Peter haltingly said, running a finger over the design. “I could’ve been stuck with a more ugly murderous necklace. This one’s not bad. Besides, I was promised powers and I intend to test that out.”

Stiles had his hands clasped together tightly, guilt furrowing his brows.

His hands were a little shaky as he wrote, heart still in his throat.

_I’m sorry. If I knew it would do that I wouldn’t have-_

“Oh, baby boy,” Peter spoke softly, giving time for Stiles to pull away as he raised a hand and rested it on the back of the shaman’s neck, pulling him close. Stiles went willingly, his gaze conflicted as Peter tugged him until he was straddling the wolf, his face nestled in Peter’s neck. Stiles swallowed hard, knowing deep down that this was not something a wolf would allow lightly. Peter had just bared his neck to him, or at the very least, allowed him near his vulnerable spot. “It’s not your fault. I was the idiot that put it on.”

  


Feeling bold and more than a little apologetic, Stiles ran a hand up Peter’s back, where he was hugging him. He hesitated for a moment before pressing the palm of his hand against the back of Peter’s neck, the same way the wolf always did to him. He knew the action calmed him down but he wasn’t sure if it would help the wolf. Still, he wanted to try.

Peter tensed for a moment, his breath stuttering before he let out a quiet groan, burying his face into Stiles’ neck and mouthing there gently.

Stiles squeezed his hand, a reflex from the sudden jolt of heat that travelled through him at Peter’s hot, wet mouth pressing kisses up his neck.

Peter seemed to like that, a muffled growl breaking out of his lips, the reverb deep and almost unnoticeable if Stiles hadn’t been pressed close enough to feel Peter’s every muscle.

“Well, if you feel responsible for my predicament, you could make it up to me you know.” It was a teasing murmur against his throat and he knew that Peter was only half joking, giving him a chance to escape if it was too much.

Stiles froze for a moment and swallowed hard, his breath hitching when that small movement brushed his neck against Peter’s stubble.

Slowly, he tilted his head to the side, baring his neck.

Again, the wolf tensed, almost imperceptible. His body seemed to tremble for a moment, his hands gripping hard where they rested on Stiles’ hips. Stiles knew without looking that he would have bruises there later.

“Stiles.” His name was said with a wrecked whisper, the sound on the edge of a growl. It was a warning.

In the end, that was what tore away the last of Stiles’ inhibitions. Peter may seem like he was the type to push and take what he wanted, but the wolf had shown him nothing but consideration thus far. He’d gone out of his way to make sure Stiles consented to everything they did, even when he pushed, it was because Stiles let it happen.

Now, Peter was holding back. If they did this, it would be crossing a line. It was clear that this time, Stiles couldn’t let Peter do all the chasing.

He was tired of running. He was tired of always feeling stressed and cautious.

Peter was the one good thing in his life right now and Stiles knew the wolf wanted him badly. He also knew that it wasn’t one-sided. Despite his own misgivings, he had truly grown fond of the wolf.

He liked him a lot. When Stiles fell for someone, he fell hard. And though he’d tried to resist his attraction to Peter, it was almost inevitable that they would end up like this. His feelings for Lydia paled in comparison to the burning passion he felt for Peter.

If it was only lust, he wouldn’t have acted on his feelings. The real problem, at least in Stiles’ opinion, was the fact that being with the wolf wasn’t difficult. He was comfortable with Peter and the wolf made him feel safe.

It wasn’t just passion and lust, it was longing and soft looks. It was the moments in between where they sat quietly and just existed together. It was walking the line between too much and not enough.

Stiles was tired of putting restrictions on their interactions. He was tired of putting up walls around his heart, too afraid to let anyone in. He was terrified of loving Peter and then losing him, he was scared of what their future held.

Peter called to him like the moon and the forest, he made Stiles feel whole again.

Stiles wasn’t blind to the fact that Peter never had lasting relationships, the wolf preferred to have flings and short periods of passion. The shaman also wasn’t blind to Peter’s affections and he hoped that he was right, that Peter felt something more than lust for him.

He was putting his heart on the line, but hopefully, he would have the wolf’s in return.

Sighing, Stiles carefully pried Peter’s fingers off of his hips, settling them in his palm and writing.

_I want you for as long as you will have me._

Peter’s eyes bore into his with a soft intensity that stole his breath. There was a slight teasing smirk on his lips, and Stiles wanted nothing more than to kiss him stupid.

“Hm, I was under the impression you didn’t like me.”

Stiles huffed out an irritated breath, rolling his eyes and giving a quick shove to Peter’s shoulder. The wolf chuckled lowly, his laughter tapering off when Stiles held on to his hand.

Slowly, the shaman placed the wolf’s hand on his chest, swallowing nervously as his heart thudded a quick rhythm beneath Peter’s palm. He held Peter’s hand there, while his other raised up.

Just as delicately, he place his other hand on Peter’s chest, resting it gently above his heart. Pressing close, he could feel just how fast the wolf’s heart was beating and it was a relief knowing he wasn’t the only nervous one.

He met Peter’s eyes with fierce determination, a flush working its way down his cheeks as he willed Peter to understand.

For shamans, this was similar to a declaration of love and intent, usually an indication of a desire for a courtship and eventual marriage.

If Peter knew enough about shaman culture, he would recognize what this gesture meant. Stiles hoped with all his heart that the wolf understood him.

Peter’s expression was frozen in shock, before quickly dropping into a neutral mask. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes conflicted.

Stiles didn’t have to be a mindreader to know Peter was rejecting him.

He dropped his gaze, holding back his tears as he let go of Peter’s hand and started removing his other from Peter’s chest. The wolf’s free hand quickly flew up, pressing the shaman’s palm against his chest. Stiles froze, holding his breath as he looked up hopefully.

“You’re asking for a lot, shaman.” Peter’s voice was hoarse, his emotions weighing it down. “You wish to own my heart.”

Peter paused and Stiles slowly nodded, biting his bottom lip harshly as his hands trembled with nerves.

The wolf’s gaze softened at that and he smiled, a gentle one that Stiles had only seen when Peter let his guard down. It was rare, and it made Stiles yearn for more.

Peter grasped his hand and raised it to his lips. The wolf pressed a soft kiss to his palm before mouthing down until he pressed a kiss onto his wrist, right above his pulse point.

Peter had closed his eyes while he indulged with a soft hum, but now he opened them and Stiles felt his breath catch at the brilliant blue glow of his irises.

With another blink, the glow was gone and they faded back into Peter’s normal eyes. Still, it was gratifying to see Peter lost a bit of control because of him.

“Am I correct to assume that I will own yours in return?”

The words were whispered against his skin, and Stiles shuddered at the barely subdued hunger in them. As if it was everything the wolf wanted and more.

Again, Stiles could do nothing but nod.

There was another pause, Peter’s eyes searching his for a moment before a beautiful grin graced his lips.

“Then I accept.”

A whine escaped from his throat and Stiles jolted in surprise at the involuntary sound he’d made. Other than the first time he’d come here and hadn’t been able to control his panicked whines, he hadn’t been able to make any other sound. Now, it seemed he was emotionally compromised enough for it to happen again.

He wanted to bury his face in the wolf’s throat and just breath. He wanted to close his eyes and know he was safe.

Not for the first time, he hated his mask with a fiery passion.

Instead, he settled for baring his neck again, a little impatient this time as he tugged at Peter until he felt the wolf’s laughter against his neck.

He shuddered as Peter’s teeth grazed his throat, clutching at the wolf’s shoulders as he let himself be guided down until he was laying on the floor.

Stiles stared up, his skin flushed and a little dazed at the flood of happiness he felt knowing that Peter was his. He could see that same giddy happiness reflected in Peter’s grin, a sight that made him smile softly, his fingers reaching up to trace the wolf’s lips.

Peter’s grin softened until only a gentle smile was left. The wolf closed his eyes and sucked a finger into his mouth, nipping sharply.

It wasn’t until Stiles’ breathing was harsh and quick, that Peter released his fingers.

“Will you let me make you feel good?”

Peter smirked at Stiles’ eager nod, almost toppling forward when the shaman eagerly wrapped his legs around Peter’s hips and pulled him down hard.

Peter barely managed to brace himself with both arms, his head hanging above the mask on the shaman. This close, Peter could see that Stiles’ eyes were almost teary with desperation and want.

“Patience, love.” Peter murmured, waiting until the shaman released his tight grip.

The wolf let out an amused hummed running a hand down Stiles body until it rested against the bulge tenting his pants. Peter leaned down until his mouth was next to Stiles’ ear, relishing the spike of want in Stiles’ scent at his next words. “Good boy.”

They didn’t leave that cabin until dinner had passed. The Hales could all smell what they’d done, but the duo looked happy holding hands, one flushed and one smug.


	8. Will

It had been a long few weeks of working with the Hales, offering his limited abilities wherever he could.

In between the tiring days, he would spend time with his wolf. It had been an unspoken thing, but they’d both laid claim to an empty cabin and started living there together. It was terribly domestic and though a part of Stiles was terrified of what this meant, a greater part of him felt nothing but love.

It was exciting, like a never ending free fall. Being with Peter made his heart pound faster but it also steadied him.

Stiles didn’t realize how lost he’d felt till he had the wolf to guide him. It was easy and it was just so comfortably them, this life they lived and breathed.

He could also see changes in Peter’s demeanor and it made something within him swell with pride. The wolf was softer now, not only around him but with others. He was calmer, his teasing remarks no longer a thinly veiled insult. Peter was less sharp around the edges and the Hales could see it too.

Talia had pulled him aside, once.

In the study, Talia had carefully warned him against Peter, stating that the wolf was unstable and dangerous. He could see the open concern in her eyes and it was only her obvious ignorance that stopped him from using his ill gained blood magic to give her something ‘dangerous’ to talk about.

Stiles had noticed, while living in the compound, that most of the Hales left them alone not because Stiles was a stranger, but because they knew Peter.

Or at least, they all assumed to know the blue eyed wolf well.

Talia had only been the first of several to warn him, and it made him furious to know that instead of protecting one of their own they were treating Peter as the threat.

They were all ignorant, blinded by Peter’s role as a Second and unwilling to look past the surface of his deadly blue eyes.

Peter was kind, he was intelligent and he always did whatever he could for his pack. He cared too deeply, and maybe that was why his words were sharpened knives, his only defense against a pack that didn’t seem to want him.

Stiles had realized over time that they both wore masks. While his was physical and sometimes metaphorical, Peter’s masks were all in his smirks and insults. He wore them with a pride that barely covered the cracks in his facade. He wore them when he spoke with the pack and he wore them even when he was by himself.

It was interesting to see that Peter had worn his mask for so long, that he wasn’t entirely sure where his real self began and where the mask ended.

He liked to pretend that his pack’s avoidance of him and their words didn’t hurt him, but Stiles was the one that held him tight every night, when the wolf came back to the cabin quiet and subdued. One of those darker days, Peter had confessed his sins to Stiles, his words stilted and tense. The wolf had gripped him so tight, Stiles was almost worried he would crush him.

He didn’t need to use his shaman eyes to know Peter was hurting and terrified Stiles would leave him too. To Stiles, Peter’s masks were just a part of him. It was everything the wolf was and wasn’t, it was his defense and his downfall. Stiles loved all of it, the man behind the mask and the ones he wore to sleep every night.

He’d kissed him softly that night, laying him out on the bed and worshipping him until Peter was nothing but a gasping mess. Later, he’d pressed Peter’s palm to his heart, and laid his own against the wolf’s chest.

Peter understood then, that he was here to stay.

With a shuddering breath, Peter had pulled him close and kissed him almost desperately, whispered confessions filling the air around them.

They had held each other tight, both burdened by the lives they’d taken but ultimately relieved there was someone to share that weight.

The only people who seemed to like Peter, or at least were less wary, were the teenagers Laura, Cora and Derek.

Stiles was very fond of them, though Derek was still someone he was careful around. The wolf was more volatile now, snappy and sometimes quiet in a way that almost felt as if he was conflicted and fighting an inner battle.

In an attempt to both lighten the kid’s moods, and also test out one of the possible ways to break Stiles’ curse, Peter had suggested the teenagers hunt down some live animals for Stiles.

Stiles had weakly protested but in the end, he knew this was one of the less morally wrong options they had. If this didn’t work they’d have to try humans and Stiles refused to do that. He’d rather live with the mask.

He’d tried asking once, if Peter cared that he’d never seen Stiles’ face. The wolf had rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss onto the ivory skull. It made Stiles blush, knowing that Peter wanted him despite the mask between them.

It made him feel blessed, which was rather ironic.

Too soon, the teenagers came back hauling three dazed deers behind them. They had been careful not to spill too much blood, only going as far as to subdue them and tie them up.

Stiles shuddered. He knew enough about blood magic, back when he’d gone into a maniacal research spiral trying to find solutions for Scott, that he was wary to use three lives in an attempt to break the curse.

It was a lot of blood.

Peter placed a hand on his neck, anchoring him. He met Peter’s concerned eyes and shook his head, trying not to worry the wolf too much.

They were near the treeline where Stiles carved the still dormant barrier symbols. He figured it was far enough away that if anything went wrong, it wouldn’t harm the Hales. At the same time, it was close enough that they could stop him if needed.

Stiles was terrified. He’d done his best to avoid the call of blood lust and he knew that once he started taking lives again it’d be hard to stop.

He held onto Peter’s hand and squeezed it, relaxing slightly when Peter squeezed back.

“Don’t worry,” Peter murmured. “If anything goes wrong I’ll stop you.”

Stiles met Peter’s eyes, relieved that he had chosen someone so perfect for him, who understood that what he needed at the moment was not reassurances of his own safety, but rather a promise to protect the others from him.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles stepped up to the deer laid out in a row in front of him. The teens stepped back silently, giving him some room as they stood a few feet away. Peter was slightly closer, his form tense as he watched Stiles take out a knife.

It wasn’t the wood carving knife that Andrew had gifted him, he didn’t want to taint the blade in any way. Instead, it was pilfered from the kitchen, the edges sharp and glinting in the sunlight filtered through the trees.

“Stiles.” Peter’s voice broke him out of his thoughts, his hand gripped tight to the blade and an almost imperceptible tremor went through him as he stared at the deer. “Remember, you have to pray to the goddess as you do it. This is a sacrifice for her.”

Stiles nodded, not meeting Peter’s eyes as he focused on the rapid thudding of the first deer’s erratic heartbeat. He could feel it under his fingers, the throat twitching nervously.

Slowly, he placed the blade against the deer’s neck, thanking the Goddess that it was knocked out cold. With one last deep breath, he let it out and started mouthing the words to the first prayer he needed to do. It was a generic one, a prayer that everyone knew. He couldn’t speak, but it was the intent that counted.

If this worked out, the Goddess would accept his offerings and the curse would be broken.

He started mixing his own prayer into it, the words begging for forgiveness even if no sound came out of his mouth. The blood dripped out of the deer and into the ground, a lot of it spilling onto Stiles where he kneeled next to the deer. Stiles gasped as a flood of heat swept through him. At first he was ecstatic, hopeful that it meant the offering had worked.

When the heat faded, he was left slightly off kilter, a numbing sensation flooding through him.

Something was wrong.

Stiles blinked slowly, as if his eyelids were weighed down and moved to the next deer. This time there was no hesitance. He plunged the blade straight into its side, his grin wide when the animal squealed. The flood of heat was almost arousing and he licked his lips, his eyes glowing.

He could feel something shifting in the air around him, something pushing. He looked up and saw a wolf, no, a man trying to get closer to him.

Stiles ignored him. The wolf was not important right now.

Vaguely, he remembered he was supposed to be praying. He couldn’t remember why but…he continued to the last deer.

Stiles mouthed a few more words of prayer, the action absent minded and borne of years of habit. It was even easier this time, his blade slicing the deer in half and blood flew into the air. Stiles tipped his head back, sucking in a deep breath as his golden eyes watched the blood droplets. They were beautiful, as if suspended in time, a gorgeous blood red against the dark green of the trees and the bright sunlight.

The power flooded through him and he shuddered, his eyes falling closed and mouth dropping open at the wonderful feeling inside of him. It was amazing, this feeling of overwhelming power.

He wanted more.

Turning his head slowly to the side, his eyes narrowed at the teenagers a few feet away. They were healthy wolves, powerful and deadly.

  


They would look beautiful covered in red.

He stood up, barely registering the blood dripping off of him as he stepped closer to the wolves.

They stepped back and Stiles tilted his head to the side, with one flick of his finger, they froze. Unable to move, they let out terrified whines, their words coming out in stuttered messes.

Stiles should be able to understand them, he knew they were begging him to stop but he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment.

He stepped even closer but a blur suddenly shot in front of him. The shaman watched curiously as the older wolf held out his hands, palms up in a placating gesture.

He was almost hypnotized by the way the wolf spoke, his mouth moving urgently. Something stirred inside of him, a fiery want, and so he took.

He trailed a hand up the wolf’s chest, pressing a hand against his neck.

The wolf was frozen, something despairing in his gaze and that wouldn’t do. The wolf could not be sad. Sad things died. Stiles didn’t like sad things.

Suddenly his hand gripped tighter and the wolf choked as he was lifted off his feet with the hand on his throat. Blunt fingernails dug into his arm and Stiles frowned.

There was something off about this. Even as the wolf lost his breath, his claws never came out.

He let out a huff of breath, frustrated as to why his mind had to focus on this one detail.

The wolf wasn’t hurting him, but why? He had claws but he wasn’t using them. Distantly, he heard the teenagers call out his name fearfully. He turned his attention to them slightly.

A choked whisper of his name was ripped out of the wolf he held and he looked into beautiful blue eyes.

“Stiles.” It was a quiet whisper he knew. It was a scream of passion in the night, a hint of laughter as kisses were pressed against his flushed skin.

It was Peter.

Stiles gasped as he let Peter go, stumbling back in horror. He stared down at his bloodied hands as if they weren’t his own, his breath coming in short pants as he felt himself quickly breakdown into a panic attack.

He had almost…

Goddess, he was safe with no one. Wildly, he looked around, his mind telling him to run.

Another shudder ran through him and his mouth opened into a silent scream as his eyes flared bright. There was too much blood, too much magic in him. He had to let it go.

Falling to his knees beside the wolf, his arms shook as he held himself up, tears streaming down his face. Peter was trying to tell him something but he was too far gone to hear.

The wolf reached for him and Stiles closed his eyes as he let go.

He mouthed one last phrase to Peter, hoping the wolf would find it in his heart to forgive him.

_I’m sorry._

His body jolted as his veins flowed a brilliant red, the blood magic flowing into the earth in pulsing veins. They looked like tendrils as they spread across the land, moving up the trees and activating the barrier with the sudden surge of power from Stiles.

The last thing he saw was the sudden glowing blue of Peter’s necklace, the pulsing in time with the wolf’s heartbeat.

It was a familiar sensation, waking up slowly in the infirmary. It reminded him of the first time he was here, his confusion the same as back then.

Stiles groaned and lifted a hand only to find he couldn’t.

He was bound tightly to the bed, spread out on his back. With a quick tug he also discovered his legs were tied down as well.

Stiles let his head fall back and sighed, remembering what had happened.

He’d hoped he wouldn’t survive the incident. Now, he would have to face the consequences for what he’d done. It had all been for nothing. The mask was still stuck to him and he knew without trying that he couldn’t speak.

And oh Goddess, Peter…

Stiles felt tears fall down his face, probably making a mess with the blood dried on his cheeks. He couldn’t bring himself to care though. How had things gone so wrong so quickly?

He tensed when Talia walked in followed by Peter. The wolf looked tired and drained, his usual impeccable clothing replaced with some looser shirts.

Stiles tried desperately to meet Peter’s eyes but the wolf wouldn’t look at him.

He felt his heart breaking even more, knowing that he’d lost the one good thing he had.

“Stiles.” Talia’s voice was stern, a certain coldness in it that wasn’t there before. “You have some explaining to do.”

Stiles let out a soundless sob, turning his head to the side and squeezing his eyes tight so he wouldn’t have to face them. There was nothing left to say. He’d lost control. Despite his many attempts to keep them safe, he’d lost the battle.

“Talia.”

Peter’s voice was hoarse and Stiles flinched, remembering the feeling of the wolf’s panicked pulse beneath his crushing fingers. He wanted to curl up into a ball and hide himself from the world. This was it then, he would be prosecuted by the person he loved.

“It wasn’t his fault.”

Stiles opened his eyes slowly, sure that he’d heard the wolf wrong.

“You’re biased, Peter.” Talia calmly protested, though her clenched fists revealed more. “Your judgement is impaired. The only reason you’re even in this room is because you’re still the Second, despite what you allowed to happen.”

Peter clenched his jaw against the biting words he wanted to say.

Stiles strained against the ropes, struggling a little and drawing Talia’s attention back to him. The shaman’s glare was vicious, his teeth bared.

How dare she speak to Peter like that? The wolf hadn’t done anything wrong. It was all his fault, and it was time he reminded her.

Although he was fairly drained of magic, some of the residue blood magic he’d absorbed allowed him to snap the ropes.

Stiles rubbed his wrists, rotating them a few times and ignored Talia’s sudden shift into beta form. Peter reached a hand out to stop her and she snarled at him.

“He’s dangerous Peter! You were the one that argued for his death in the beginning and now you defend him? Follow your role! You said you would kill him yourself if he hurt the pack. Well? Where’s your conviction now?” She advanced on Peter slowly as she spoke, her claws unsheathed and deadly. Peter refused to back down. His gaze steady as he spoke.

“We both knew he was dangerous and you agreed to him staying here. My _role_ is to protect the pack,” Peter hissed out, leaning forward and eyes glinting defiantly blue as he fought against his beta wolf instincts. His wolf was whining, terrified. It wanted to submit to the alpha but Peter was done following what his wolf wanted.

“He almost killed my children,” Talia whispered the words, her eyes alpha red and tears swimming in them. It brought Peter back to the first time, when he’d killed to protect Talia and her unborn child.

But this time was different. It had to be.

Peter took a deep breath, standing tall and with hands fisted at his sides.

“I protected the pack.” Peter lifted his chin up slightly, knowing that the light would reflect the bruises on his neck, the marks still there but slowly fading away. “I protected them, Talia. It’s over.”

Talia closed her eyes and when she opened them, the red glow was gone. She looked human again, her eyes pained as she lifted a hand and settled it on the side of Peter’s neck gently.

“You’re part of the pack too, Peter.”

Peter’s voice was deceptively nonchalant as he let out a hum, his eyes moving to Stiles.

“Am I really?”

Talia was speechless and he took the opportunity to scoop up the shaman in his arms, lifting him easily.

The alpha let them go and just as he passed through the doorway, Peter looked over his shoulder at her.

“Stiles is my responsibility and he did not hurt the pack. Only me. In fact, he activated the barrier around the cabins which was extremely beneficial for us.” He paused, looking down at Stiles’ mask instead of Talia. His voice was soft. “Now if you’ll excuse us.”

He left, and this time he didn’t stop until they were back at their cabin.

Peter let out a relieved breath as he set Stiles down on their bed, the shaman almost immediately curling up into a ball.

He was shaking slightly, his breath coming out in harsh puffs. The wolf stood there for a moment, his heart breaking at the sight of his mate in such pain. He could smell it on Stiles, the guilt, the fear, and the heavy emptiness that came with it.

He sighed as he sat down on the edge of the bed, stroking a hand gently down Stiles’ side as he made calm shushing sounds.

Eventually, Stiles relaxed enough to stretch out a bit. The shaman couldn’t meet his eyes and Peter could tell he was terrified.

“Stiles.” The boy flinched and Peter let out a soothing hum, tangling a hand into Stiles’ bloody hair. “Look at me.”

Gently, he guided the shaman until his head was turned towards him, looking up with tears in his eyes.

Peter pressed a kiss on the now bloodied mask, smiling at the hitch in Stiles’ breath at his actions.

Pulling back slightly, he leaned his forehead against the mask, caging the boy in his arms as he rested above him.

“This changes nothing between us. We’re okay.”

A whine broke out of Stiles throat and he shook as he sobbed, the mask muffling his breathing. The shaman scrambled for his hand and Peter tried to decipher the shaky writing.

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-_

Peter wrapped his hand around Stiles’ fingers and held him there, bringing it up until he could kiss those bloodied palms.

“There is nothing you could do that would make me leave you. I-“ Peter closed his eyes, an involuntary shudder running through him at the memory of how he’d desperately held Stiles to him, convinced that the magic had burned through Stiles until there was nothing left. “I thought I’d lost you. I can’t do that again.”

Stiles tugged at Peter’s shirt in question and Peter sighed, moving until he was lying next to Stiles on his back, still holding the shaman’s hand.

“I don’t think you understand how much I need you, Stiles.”

Peter turned until he was resting on his side, staring at Stiles’ eyes that reflected its usual dark amber color in the candle light.

“I can’t lose you.”

Stiles closed his eyes and Peter felt the shaman press open his palm, a steady finger tracing words into his skin.

_Maybe it would be better for both of us if I wasn’t here._

Peter growled, surging forward until he was once again above the shaman, pressed against him.

“No.” Peter struggled with pulling his wolf back but eventually he managed it. His teeth slowly receded back into blunt human ones, the sharp points no longer tearing at his lip. “You’re too important to me. You’re my-“

_You’re my mate._ Peter wanted to say, and it was at that moment that he realized it was true. It was what this breathless feeling in his chest meant. It was why when he looked at Stiles, he felt like he could lose everything and still be anchored as long as the shaman was by his side.

It was a stunning revelation, one that he should have anticipated. And by the Goddess, his mate was perfect for him. Of all the people in the world he could have been blessed with, he got to keep Stiles for himself.

Peter smiled, meeting Stiles’ confused eyes.

“You’re my mate.”

Stiles tensed under him before letting out a teary huff, a smile spreading across his lips, the first since this whole incident.

Stiles pulled him closer and he let it happen, sighing as he let his full weight lie on him. It felt good, being this close.

“You can’t get rid of me now, Stiles. We’ll be together. Until the very end.”

His words were whispered into Stiles’ ear and the shaman hugged him impossibly closer. The younger man was shaking slightly as he cried, though this time it was happy tears.

Stiles was emotionally drained. After he thought he’d lost everything, he learned that he had more than what he’d started with.

They were _mates_.

Stiles knew enough about werewolves to understand that mates were forever. Peter would always love him, just as much as Stiles did. They would get through this, together. 


	9. Be

The next few days, he tried his hardest to avoid going out of the cabin. He didn’t want to face the other Hales, especially the teenagers that had shown him such kindness since he started staying here. He was ashamed of what he had done, and though he didn’t actually hurt them, he knew he’d probably scared them enough for them to hate him.

Still, he couldn’t stay in there forever.

After Peter threatened no sex for a week if he didn’t get off his ass, Stiles finally stepped outside with a pout. He’d been tasked with checking the new barrier, making sure the sigils were intact and in tip top shape.

He’d perked up at the mention of the wards, grateful at least one good thing had come out of the whole incident.

Well there were more than one weird things that came out of it. Stiles frowned as he remembered how he’d curiously asked about the necklace which he remember had glowed bright blue with the surge of his blood magic.

Since then it had returned to its usual state, though now, they could see into the stone. While before, it was dull and almost grainy blue, now it was a beautiful smooth translucent hue. It was almost hollow inside and looked more like a bizarre container than a stone now.

It didn’t glow again with a pulsing color, but it did occasionally let out spikes of blue when Peter’s emotions were heightened. This led to some interesting light effects when they were in bed together, something that amused them both.

It seemed harmless enough and though Stiles was looking into it, reading the shaman books over and over again, they couldn’t find anything more on the necklace.

Stiles hummed happily as he pressed his hand to the tree trunks, thankful that the wards had channelled his burst of power into light magic. He’d been afraid his blood magic would twist the spell work into something dark and evil. It seemed to be working nicely and it would serve its purpose well.

With this, it would now keep out anyone with ill intent and also alert the shaman if someone tried to break through.

The shaman sighed as he stepped further into the tree line, passing by every tree he’d marked. He wondered why he was still allowed within the wards. Surely he was a danger to the Hales?

His original theory had been to spill his own blood. If he was right, it would break the curse. At this rate, he would be spilling the Hales’ blood rather than his own. He needed to get a grip on himself.

Walking deeper into the forest, he wondered if maybe he could extend the wards farther than just the tree line. If he did, it would allow them advanced notice if someone with malicious intent crossed the wards.

His body suddenly tensed and he turned around before his mind could catch up.

There, stood a little farther in the forest, was a woman with blond hair.

She was beautiful, in a fierce, jagged edges kind of way. She also had an air of danger around her and Stiles pressed his lips into a grim line, gripping his wood carving knife tighter.

“Aw you’re adorable!” The shaman’s spine was ramrod straight, his breathing shallow as she circled around him. Her eyes were hungry and it made him feel extremely uncomfortable, as if she was eating him up with only a look. “What’s your name, baby boy?”

And oh he did not like that. When Peter called him baby boy, he felt warm and safe. With this woman, he felt dirty. He didn’t answer, his eyes never leaving her as she paced. Somehow she reminded him of a snake, ready to strike if he let his guard down.

When he didn’t answer, her casual grin broke into an irritated sneer. It was only there for a moment before hidden quickly away behind a friendly smirk.

“Oh I get it. You’re the Hales’ new pet aren’t you?” She hummed pressing a finger against her blood red lips as she pretended to think. “I quite like you. Someone as cute as you shouldn’t be staying with the Hales.”

Suddenly, she darted close and Stiles gasped as she gripped the hand holding the knife tightly.

“I know you’re not like them.” She hissed, her eyes almost wild with something not entirely sane. “They’re dangerous monsters. You should leave while you can.”

Stiles quickly broke out of her hold, stumbling back a few steps as he held the knife in front of him, his breath harsh with stress.

Being that close to her, something about the woman reminded him of cold metal. It was familiar.

He blinked and his eyes flashed for a moment as he used his shaman eyes. When he focused on her, his mouth dropped open and his eyes narrowed at the feeling of wrongness around her.

She was so cold.

There was nothing but a steady unmoving steeliness to her aura. The silver of it shining with intent. It was faint and hard to see with Stiles’ weakened shaman eyes, but it was enough for him to recognize it as the same aura that had been stuck on Derek for weeks now.

Suddenly, her aura sharpened into focus and he flinched back when he saw her step closer. Her intents were malicious and Stiles didn’t even know who she was, or why she was doing this.

“You’re a shaman.” She said it like it was a revelation, her eyes meeting his own slightly glowing ones, before her voice dropped lower. “And you’re cursed as well.”

At Stiles surprised look she threw her head back and laughed, the sound of it jarring and cruel.

“Oh please, we’ve put down enough of your type to be able to tell the difference.” Her smirk was sharp, her eyes glinting with something like dark amusement. “So what did you do? Murder your entire family for power? Sign a deal with the devil? We didn’t expect the Hales to have someone so powerful on their side.”

Stiles stepped back again, eyes daring to leave her’s for a second to dart to the tree line and back again. If he could just get close enough…

“Doesn’t matter, does it sweetheart?” She seemed to be answering her own question and Stiles swallowed hard when her pleasant act fell away, revealing the hatred beneath. “It won’t matter when you’re all dead.”

Just when he was about to run for it, she stepped back, and relaxed. She was putting up a false front, a veneer of friendliness and if Stiles hadn’t seen the ugly underneath, he would have believed it.

“Well! It was such a treat to meet you but I have things to do, places to go…I’ll see you soon, shaman.” She sauntered off, quickly fading away as the forest covered her presence, as if she’d never been there.

Stiles waited for a few more long minutes, frozen, before he let himself relax. His hands were almost shaky from the adrenaline. He wasn’t fooled by her fake friendliness, that woman was dangerous and he was lucky he had escaped with his life.

Stiles brows furrowed as he tried to shake the feeling of dread running through him.

He had to tell Peter of this encounter. He couldn’t help but feel like something was wrong.

He found Peter having lunch with the rest of the Hales in the dining room. Stiles paused, reluctant to go in but was quickly shoved inside by Laura.

She gave him a playful smirk, something worried in her gaze as she gently pressed a hand to his arm. It was an obvious attempt at scent marking, trying to comfort him.

Stiles felt his throat close up, tears threatening to fall at this display of trust. Besides the first few times he’d approached Laura, Cora, and Derek to apologize for his actions, he had avoided them like the plague. He was certain he held nothing but bad memories for them, and though they’d forgiven him readily, he hadn’t forgiven himself for scaring them.

Clearing his throat, Stiles stepped in shakily, thankful that Cora had decided to fall into step beside him and essentially escort him to his seat next to Peter. The table fell silent at his presence and again, Stiles felt exposed.

Peter was giving him a steady look, not asking him to stay but not asking him to leave either. The wolf wanted it to be his choice.

He turned to leave, the pressure too much for him, but was pressed down by a hand on his shoulder, courtesy of Derek.

Lunch was served and he sat there almost confused at how the Hale siblings had so easily manipulated him into eating with them. Those brats truly were conniving little shits.

He hid his grin behind his bowl, drinking the soup happily as the Hales relaxed around him and continued the conversation as if nothing had happened.

He spent his lunch there in a content haze, glad that the Hales were not treating him any differently. They only seemed more worried for him now, darting him concerned glances every now and then. They were more concerned for his mental health and how he was dealing with the incident than with themselves.

It warmed his heart, knowing just how kind and welcoming the Hales were.

Talia had apologized for her behavior a few days after the incident. Stiles didn’t think she was in the wrong, especially since as the alpha she had to put her pack first.

Still, Stiles knew enough about Talia and Peter’s rocky past to understand that threats to her children were a testy subject for her and brought back bad memories.

He’d forgiven her easily and she had accepted him back into the fold as if he’d never left. There was still some residual awkwardness sometimes but he could tell she was trying her best to accommodate him.

It didn’t make him feel any less guilty. In fact, the lack of punishment for his actions only made him feel worse about himself.

Peter was the one that held him together these days, making sure to tell him calmly over and over again that it wasn’t his fault.

It helped and slowly he was starting to believe it.

Stiles waited until after lunch and they were alone to talk to Peter about his encounter. They were making some more of those deflection charms. The teens and some of the adults would occasionally play fight to practice and sometimes they forgot to take off the charms before hand. Once it deflected one hit, it broke.

It led to Stiles having his hands full as he constantly had to make new ones. He had wanted there to be enough to give several charms to each Hale but at the rate they were destroying them, he only had enough materials for one charm per Hale.

Still, it was better than nothing.

“So you saw this woman in the forest?”

Stiles nodded, hands unsteady with residue nerves as he painted the now familiar marks into the wood piece.

Peter hummed thoughtfully. He was sitting next to Stiles, close enough to touch as he whittled away at the wood pieces. He had been tasked with creating manageable pieces and tying a piece of twine to each.

The rope made it a little easier to tie to their clothing, allowing them to wear it with out the risk of losing it.

“Sounds like you met Kate Argent.”

Stiles stopped what he was doing, looking up at the wolf in surprise. Argents were well known to other magical creatures as the number one hunter family to avoid.

Still, this definitely explained the unique silver color her aura had.

Stiles wiped his hands off on a nearby cloth, grabbing Peter’s hand.

_She’s dangerous. I don’t trust her._

Peter shrugged and breathed out with a sigh.

“No one does. We technically have a treaty with the Argents. A ceasefire, if you will.” Peter paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “But Kate…she was always against it. She didn’t want peace. I think she would have burned us all to the ground if she could.”

Stiles felt a feeling of foreboding travel through him, a grimace on his face.

_I thinks she wants to hurt the pack._

Peter paused, crossing his arms before uncrossing them again before shaking his head slowly. “She can’t. If she did, she would be cast out of the Argents and punished. The Argents have been trustworthy allies. They are the hunters of the village and mainly keep the peace around here by dealing with omega werewolves. We help occasionally.”

Stiles could tell from Peter’s frown and slightly distant look that there was something the wolf wasn’t saying.

_But you don’t trust them._

It wasn’t a question because Stiles knew his wolf well enough to understand Peter’s hesitance in the silence between his words.

“Not exactly,” Peter finally said slowly. He met Stiles’ eyes and sighed again, bringing a hand up to run down his face. His expression was haggard, as if he was remembering unpleasant memories. “We’ve fought each other for so long that it’s hard to trust them. Of course, as the Second I must be especially vigilant.”

“She’s done things even I can’t stomach.” Peter took a deep breath, his eyes flashing blue as he growled. “If it was up to me, I would have ripped her throat out long ago.”

Stiles trailed his fingers softly down Peter’s palm, his head hanging low as he tried to figure out how to say this.

_I’ve noticed her aura attached to Derek. It’s…malicious. I’m sure you’ve noticed that Derek’s been distant lately._

Peter bared his teeth, a barely held back snarl in his voice. Stiles had explained to him the sometimes subtle glow his eyes held and what it meant. It had fascinated Peter, knowing there was another layer to humanity that went past the normal five senses. While wolves could technically smell emotions, they couldn’t see auras as if they were physical manifestations of a person’s soul.

“That bitch, if she touched one hair on his head…”

_That’s the thing. I think they’re in a relationship, or at least in a rather physical one._

The wolf reared back in disbelief, a stunned expression crossing his face.

“There’s no way that’s possible. We would’ve smelled her on Derek and he knows better.”

_Does he though?_

Stiles looked up at Peter through his eyelashes, a grim twist to his lips.

_He’s a hormonal teenager and she’s a beautiful woman, older and more experienced. Can you say for sure Derek can resist her?_

“He…” Peter closed his eyes tight, knowing without a doubt that this situation wasn’t going to end well. “He can’t continue whatever it is he has with her. I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow.”

_The Argents are adept at hiding their presence from wolves. It isn’t too hard to imagine that they have charms that would hide their scent. Whatever Kate wants from us, it’s nothing good._

Peter nodded tersely, distracted by his thoughts as they finished up the rest of the charms. He would have to figure out a way to approach Derek. The boy wasn’t too fond of people prying into his private life and this was no different. No doubt the younger wolf would get defensive, hackles raised.

The next day, they passed out the new charms to all the Hales until everyone had at least one wooden piece.

Throughout dinner later that night, Stiles and Peter tried hard not to seem like they were staring at Derek. The wolf was listless, moving his food around with tired jabs and eating very little. Even his siblings could tell something was wrong, both Laura and Cora trying their best to make him laugh.

It didn’t really work, but at least he smiled a little easier afterwards.

Derek had disappeared soon after, mumbling something about working on a project before fleeing for his room.

Peter had sensed the boy didn’t want to talk, and though he really wanted to confront Derek about Kate, he figured he would let the wolf cool down first.

He could try again tomorrow.

That night Stiles and Peter laid in bed together, the shaman resting the side of his head on Peter’s shoulder as the wolf laid on his back. They breathed easily together, a steady rise and fall to their movements as their hearts beat as one.

He traced words on Peter’s naked chest, ones without meaning and ones that he couldn’t bring himself to say.

“If you keep writing ‘love’ on my chest I might develop a complex. I thought my mouth was your favorite part of me,” Peter teased, a wicked smirk on his face as Stiles flushed a deep red before slapping a hand on the spot he’d been tracing softly.

“I adore you, sweetheart,” Peter whispered with his eyes closed and body relaxed, inhaling deeply as he pressed his face into Stiles’ hair. Though he was cursed, Stiles still had the residue scent of the forest in him, as if not even blood itself could wash the nature from his veins. “I feel the same.”

The last part was said so softly he was practically mouthing it. Still, it was enough for Stiles’ heart to beat faster and for him to freeze in surprise.

The wolf held him tight and slowly he relaxed, closing his eyes as a happy smile lit up his face.

_We’ll be together. Until the very end._

Stiles wrote the words with conviction, believing them with all his heart.

Peter raised a hand up and held Stiles’ hand against his chest, his palm warm and rough.

“Yes, it’s a promise baby boy.”

Stiles squirmed a little at the nickname. A part of him always perked up in arousal as if he was hard wired to react that way. He was too busy feeling content and happy with Peter’s words, otherwise he’d probably act on his arousal.

Peter hummed softly, something the wolf had found helped the shaman sleep.

Sighing, Stiles slipped into a dreamless sleep, feeling safe in his wolf’s arms.

Sometime in the night, Stiles woke up with a jolt, something in him screaming for his attention. He was dazed as he looked around the room, trying to figure out what was different. He ignored Peter’s confused and worried questions, trying to focus and figure out where this feeling of anticipation was coming from.

Suddenly, something in him snapped. His eyes flew open wide, head dropping back and his mouth opened into a soundless scream as excruciating pain flew through him.

Someone had broken the wards.


	10. My

It felt like an eternity before Stiles came back to himself. When he did, he finally realized that Peter was shaking him and calling out his name urgently.

“Stiles. Stiles!” The wolf was fraught with worry, the hands gripping his shoulders almost painful in its intensity.

Stiles gasped, grabbing Peter’s hand and hastily scrawled out a few words with shaky fingers.

_The wards. Something’s wrong._

Peter cursed as he quickly got out of bed, grabbing a fur cloak and putting it on a bit messily. His ever present necklace hung low on his chest. Stiles only had time to register that the wolf was still only wearing trousers, the wooden deflection charm attached to his pants, before Peter ran out of the room. The wolf gave him a stern order to stay and Stiles scoffed.

As if he was going to just sit here and look pretty.

The shaman grabbed a cloak of his own, though he was wearing a shirt underneath. Unlike the wolf, he didn’t naturally run hot, especially now that he’d lost his immunity to nature’s elements. He made sure to strap the wood carving knife to his hip.

He stepped out of the cabin to utter chaos, the other Hales were running around trying to figure out what had happened. Distantly, he heard Talia howl, a command to gather at the main Hale house. He carefully made his way past them and into the main house.

He knew where he would get his answers.

Quietly, he slipped into Derek’s room, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the darkness.

It was only when they focused on the obviously empty bed that Stiles cursed silently, running out of the room and right into Peter’s chest. It seemed the wolf had the same idea as him.

“I thought I told you to stay in the cabin.” Peter growled out, his fingers gripping Stiles’ arms tight enough to bruise.

Stiles rolled his eyes before stepping aside and gesturing to the empty room.

Peter froze for a moment, something like fear flashing through his eyes before he grit his teeth and led them to the living room where the Hales had gathered.

“Mom, what’s going on?” Laura asked, wiping at her tired eyes. Cora leaned against her side, alert and a little bit scared.

Those from the other cabins had all made it safely to the main room. It was a relief to see everyone unharmed.

All except one.

“Where’s Derek?” Talia spoke through a mouth full of sharpened teeth, her eyes flashing red and body hunched over.

As if summoned by those very words, a chilling laugh was heard from outside the house.

The wolves all stiffened in surprise before rushing outside.

There, stood right past the treeline was Kate Argent. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but there were several other people spread out. They were surrounded.

Belatedly, Stiles saw Derek, the wolf slumped over at her feet and bleeding profusely from some injuries. They weren’t healing. It was alarming and Stiles knew for a fact that the wounds were inflicted with wolfsbane.

She had a hand cruelly fisted into the boy’s hair, his head wrenched back until they could see his dazed, half-lidded eyes.

“How lucky! The whole pack is here, ripe for the picking.” Kate laughed before throwing Derek to the side. She kicked him hard, smirking when he curled up into a ball and tears streamed down his face. “But of course, I already knew that thanks to this mouthy one here.”

Talia snarled and tensed as if she was going to pounce but Peter stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“Don’t. We don’t know how many people they have,” The Second whispered under his breath, his gaze never leaving Kate’s. “We’re surrounded. We have to play it smart.”

“Derek-“

“I know.” Peter growled out, his eyes pained as he watched Kate kick Derek a few more times. “But if we lose our alpha we’re all dead.”

It was a tense few moments before Talia forcibly backed down, everything in her screaming to save her son.

“You know,” Kate started speaking, one of her feet resting on top of Derek’s side. “Your son here didn’t put up much of a fight. I had planned to play with him a little longer, slowly convince him to give me all of the Hales’ secrets, your escape routes.”

Kate placed a finger on her red lips, pursing them in mock sympathy.

“A pity. You monsters would have burned so beautifully. You only have the shaman to blame for your current situation.”

The Hales murmured among themselves, confused as to what she could mean.

“Shamans are a dangerous bunch. Protective. Disgustingly resilient. Imagine my surprise when I found out there was a shaman in your pack!” Kate dropped her voice lower, her eyes glinting dangerously. “He’s a dark shaman as well. We had to…speed up our plans a little to accommodate for his sudden appearance.”

Peter spoke up, not liking the fact that she was talking about Stiles. The wolf wanted her as far from Stiles as possible. Preferably dead and six feet under the ground.

“Why are you doing this?” Peter’s eyes darted to the other hunters, taking in their weapons and attire. They were definitely affiliated with the Argents. “We have a treaty with the Argents.”

Kate’s friendly demeanor dropped as she stepped forward, a snarl in her voice.

“We don’t make deals with _dogs_.”

Within the blink of an eye, Peter had jumped towards Kate, taking advantage of her distraction. His claws were just about to sink into her skin when he was deflected by an unknown force. Peter grunted in pain as he hit the ground hard, sliding back several feet until he was back where he started.

Before he could do anything else Kate laughed mockingly, her smile wicked.

“It was a bit last minute so we couldn’t find enough mountain ash to really cage you dogs in…but luckily Derek here told me all about this useful barrier!”

She traced her hands almost lovingly over the trees marked with the now modified symbols, their intentions to trap rather than to shield.

Stiles was devastated, his face thunderous as he bared his teeth. The barrier he had created to protect the Hales were now designed to kill them.

The shaman felt sick. They were all going to die because of him.

No, he refused to lose anyone else.

Stiles shook his head, clearing it as he tried to think. With the backlash of the broken barrier, it left him weak and injured. His magic was barely there, a flickering flame trapped in his magically exhausted body.

Still, he had to do something. It was his magic that got him into this situation and he was going to get them out of it or die trying.

It was what he deserved.

“Stiles.” Peter’s voice was quiet, something almost terrified in it. Stiles almost wanted to laugh, if their situation wasn’t so dire. The wolf had always been able to predict his every move. “Don’t.”

Stiles didn’t know when the wolf managed to get so close but he didn’t resist when Peter pulled him into a hug. The wolf’s hands rested low on his hips and he sighed, pressing his face into the man’s chest for a few precious moments.

Around them, the hunters were raising up bow and arrows. The arrowheads glinted strangely and the wolves could smell the wolfsbane from here. They wouldn’t be able to escape this volley of arrows.

Stiles could hear the wolves snarling, shifting into their beta forms while Talia ordered Andrew to guide their human members back into the house. Though some were quick to comply the majority of them argued, wanting to stay and fight. It wasn’t until Talia roared, her eyes a commanding alpha red that the humans relented.

The wolves would be the first line of defense in this battle they were destined to lose.

The world seemed to slow down around them as Stiles lifted his face up and met the wolf’s eyes. Peter looked distraught, as if he knew what Stiles wanted to do. The shaman smiled softly as he pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand and then placed it above the wolf’s heart.

When Stiles turned away from Peter, it felt like a goodbye.

Stiles took a deep breath and took out the carving knife. He only hesitated for a moment before cutting a line down his arm. Blood gushed out of the deep wound, dripping down onto the forest floor.

Stiles walked forward, his eyes glowing as he let the magic flow through him. Arrows flew towards him and he dodged easily, his shaman eyes giving him the ability to see the malicious intentions aimed at him.

He only had one chance at this. The magic was fueled with his own blood. This meant he only had a limited window of opportunity, before the blood loss became too much for him. Not for the first time he cursed the rules of magic and the need for balance. If the backlash of the broken barrier hadn’t essentially exploded his magical reserves, he wouldn’t have to sacrifice his own blood.

He stepped easily to the treeline, his smile dark as he raised a hand and flicked it to the side. The hunter near him quickly flew through the trees, crashing painfully against a tree trunk. Others rushed him all at once but he ignored them.

He could feel Peter behind him. His wolf had been shadowing him the whole time, snarling and destroying the arrows as they flew towards the other Hales. He didn’t bother protecting Stiles from the arrows, the shaman had proved he could more than handle himself.

The moment some of the hunters stupidly crossed the barrier Peter was on them, ripping their throats out. Blood sprayed over Stiles and he used it to fuel his magic. It poured on the ground around him and he pressed his hand to it, sighing at the power that surged through him.

He kneeled in a pool of blood, his hands sticky with warmth. It was intoxicating. The blood seemed to fuel him with never-ending energy.

Stiles frowned, shaking his head quickly. He had to break the barrier first and then let the wolves take care of the rest. It wasn’t a good idea to use too much blood magic, especially when he was already addicted to its allure.

Stiles closed his eyes and a rumbling started up in the forest. The land pulsed in time with his heartbeat, the thud of it quick like a drum. Red veins appeared throughout the land, spreading past until they hit the edges of the barrier. The hunters yelled out in panic as the treeline uprooted themselves. With an ominous grown, the trees snapped in half, breaking the sigils carved into them. Almost as if the forest was alive, the ground rolled, taking the trees down with them.

Without prompting, the Hales let loose triumphant howls and dashed into the fray, taking advantage of the chaos to knock over the hunters.

Many of them were still trying to get back up, the ground unsteady.

Quickly their yelps of panic turned into screams of terror as snarling wolves pounced on them. Stiles panted, falling over with his eyes closed. The blood loss and massive amount of magic he’d used had taken everything out of him.

He could feel himself fading fast, his vision blurring.

A part of him was whispering words of temptation. All he had to do was get his hand on more blood and he would be full of power again. He would be useful.

He just needed a little boost. A little blood wouldn’t hurt…

Stiles gasped when he was turned onto his back and quickly propped up against the toppled tree nearby.

“Stiles!” Peter yelled out, the wolf’s hands hovering above his body. The wolf was anxious to touch him and check if he was okay. At the same time, he had no idea of knowing how injured Stiles was and if moving him would make it worse.

Stiles shook his head, grimacing at the sudden wave of dizziness that swept over him at the movement. The shaman pushed weakly at Peter’s arms, trying to get him to help the Hales.

Distantly, he heard Talia growling before a snap and cut off scream echoed through the night. There was a pause before she was talking frantically, asking if Derek was alright.

Stiles squinted past Peter’s shoulder and saw Cora carry Derek back to the house, an arm slung over her shoulder. The younger wolf was practically dragging him. Talia had only allowed herself a moment of relief before throwing herself back into the fight.

There was something in the back of his mind, a niggling of worry. It buzzed like an alarm, like the whispers of the Goddess and her prophecies.

He was inexplicably scared, and he clutched Peter’s cloak, his mouth opening before remembering he couldn’t speak. There was something wrong but he was too out of it to decipher why. His instincts were screaming and all he could do was stare as Peter glanced back at the Hales still fighting for their lives.

The wolf squeezed Stiles’ shoulder with a bloody hand and pressed a fierce kiss to his mask.

He pulled back and looked Stiles straight in the eyes. His face was taut with stress, his usually smirking mouth now pulled tight at the corners.

“You’ll be fine, sweetheart.” Peter murmured reassuringly, taking off his cloak and wrapping Stiles’ still bleeding arm with it. “Stay here okay? Don’t go anywhere. I need to go help them but I’ll be back for you soon.”

Stiles felt an emptiness inside him, something dark, ancient. He wanted to raise a hand up and pull Peter down on top of him, to stop the wolf from leaving. Maybe it was selfish but he was more terrified of the unknown.

With one last soft look, the wolf left as quickly as he’d appeared.

Stiles stared, his gaze slowly fading in and out in between exhausted blinks.

Slowly, as if in a trance, he got up. Swaying on his feet, he steadied himself against the nearest tree. He stumbled as he walked, panting as he tried to follow where Peter had went. The wolf had moved deeper into the forest, chasing blond locks of hair and cruel laughs.

Stiles followed because there was nothing else he could do. He needed to be with his wolf.

It was a slow journey and he almost passed out once or twice but he somehow managed to make it.

The sounds of fighting were louder here and he leaned against a tree heavily as he watched the fight with tired eyes.

Kate and Peter were fighting one on one, their movements both quick and deadly as they danced around each other. They had moved away from the main battle, secluded in this little area as they fought for their lives.

Kate was taunting the wolf, telling him all the different ways she had tortured Derek after betraying him. Peter was silent for once, his eyes hard as he anticipated her movements and deflected them with his claws. The hunter was wielding a blade the length of her arm. She was clearly well trained, her movements fluid as she tried again and again to stab Peter in a vulnerable place.

Stiles knew that Peter had finally noticed his presence when the wolf tensed a little, a growl under his breath as he fought a little harder. He pushed her back hard enough that she flew several feet. He tried to take her down but she lightly got back onto her feet, darting away.

For a while the two were at a stand still, the sounds of fighting fading in the distance as the Hales got the upper hand.

They stood, panting as their eyes never left the other.

Stiles was so entranced by their fight that he didn’t notice the hunter until it was too late. There was a snap of a branch behind him and he whirled around, a part of him already screaming that there was no escaping this.

A sharp _twang_ sounded through the night as the arrow flew towards him and he could only watch, stomach sinking with dread, as it aimed unerringly for his heart.

“Stiles!” It was like he was underwater as he turned his head to look Peter in those haunting blue eyes. One last time, he just needed-

The shaman’s eyes widened as several things happened at once.

He watched as Kate darted close, a hungry grin on her face as she shoved the knife forward. Stiles couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. All he felt was a strong sense of relief that at least he would die knowing the charm he’d made Peter would save him. It would give him the element of surprise, just enough for him to kill Kate.

There was a loud _snap_ and Stiles looked down as if in a trance, his eyes on the now broken charm attached to his hip.

  


Instead of crippling pain, the arrow had deflected off his chest. He remembered how Peter had hugged him before the fight. He remembered the way Peter had touched his hips with intent.

He didn’t remember Peter attaching his charm to his hip.

Time seemed to slow down as he looked back up, his mouth dropping open in horror.

In his distraction, the wolf had turned his back to the hunter. Peter’s eyes widened as Kate drove the blade through his heart, a choked gasp falling from his lips. There was a moment, suspended in time as Stiles-

_Screamed._

“Peter!”

The mask fell to the ground, shattering into pieces as it cracked. Stiles moved forward, stumbling as he sobbed. He fell to his knees next to the wolf, his knees sinking into a pool of black blood.

It was then that Stiles finally realized the price in blood he needed to pay wasn’t his own but rather something far worse: the blood and life of someone he loved. Just like how he took the life of the criminal and stole him from the arms of his loved ones, he would lose the person he loved as well.

He barely registered the howls of despair as the rest of the Hales joined the fight. Kate was screaming something, fighting the Hales off. Talia rushed past him with a growl, only sparing a quick, pained glance at the scene they made. He couldn’t see anything but Peter, the wolf’s mouth bubbling over with poisoned blood.

“Peter, Peter no no please-“ Stiles cried, the tears streaking down his bloody face as his hands hovered anxiously over Peter’s chest. The wolf had fallen on his back, the knife driven all the way through his chest until it protruded from the front.

“Please,” Stiles begged, his voice hoarse from the lack of use and the overwhelming sense of loss he felt.

Peter chuckled, a wince crossing his face, his eyes dazed.  
  
The wolf lifted a shaking hand and cupped Stiles’ face, his thumb wiping away the steady stream of tears as Stiles sobbed.

“You’re beautiful.”

Stiles shook his head, a hand coming up to press Peter’s palm to his face. He nuzzled into it desperately, ignoring the dirt and blood.

“Why?” His voice broke as he hunched over, resting his forehead to Peter’s. “Why did you do it? You should’ve just kept the charm. You should’ve-“

He let out another scream of anguish as he cried, too broken to do anything else. Peter was looking up at him with resigned eyes.

Stiles struggled to understand. There was no reason for Peter to look so resigned, as if he’d already given up. After all, werewolves healed quickly. All they had to do was get the knife out and Peter would heal. He would be okay. There was nothing to be resigned about, nobody to mourn.

He had to be okay.

“I deserved it. It was my price to pay.” Stiles whispered, clenching his eyes tight as the pain in his heart threatened to overwhelm him. Slowly, he felt himself breaking into pieces, adrift without an anchor.

“Stiles.” Peter voice was stern, though it was getting harder and harder to hear his weakened voice. “Let me decide what you deserve. You deserve something better than the fate you’ve chosen for yourself. You deserve better than what the Goddess has given you.” The wolf moved his hand to press against Stiles’ heart in a gesture that was familiar to the both of them.

_I love you. I’m here for you._

The words went unsaid but still it hovered in the air between them.

_Until the very end._

“I can’t lose you.”

“Baby boy, I lo…” Peter trailed off and Stiles opened his eyes, pulling back. He watched as the light went out of Peter’s eyes, as his chest grew still.

He watched as the man he loved died.

Throwing his head back, Stiles let out a scream of anguish so painful that the people around him, enemies and friends alike, stopped.

The hunters looked at each other before throwing down their weapons. Kate was impaled on Talia’s claws, the alpha panting as tears streamed down her face. She had heard her brother’s heart stop.

It was over.

Throwing the woman’s body off of her like it was trash, Talia stood back up.

She turned to the rest of the hunters, taking note of their surrender.

Glancing back at where Stiles kneeled catatonic and barely breathing next to her brother’s dead body, she let out a snarl.

“Kill them all.”

She didn’t look back as screams for mercy sounded around them, moving until she was kneeling next to Stiles.

She almost didn’t recognize the shaman like this, his mask nowhere to be seen and his usually sassy self all but gone.

“Stiles,” Talia said gently as she turned the shaman away from her brother. The man was limp in her arms, like a doll. The alpha swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment as she shuddered. Peter’s eyes were still open, empty.

She carefully helped him up and gestured to Laura. The usually jovial teenager was grim, her tears falling as she held onto Stiles and led the shaman back to the cabins, the rest of the Hales trailing after her. Stiles stumbled along listlessly, no life left in him. Talia took another deep breath before bending down and picking up Peter’s body to take back with her. They were all quiet, both from exhaustion and the heavy sense of loss they felt.

They had won the battle but the price was too high.

His father used to tell him tales of a kind Goddess. The way her moon guided weary travelers in the dark and that the gentle whispers of the forest were echoes of her lilting voice.

He realized now that the Goddess was never kind. No, those were just delusions. She was a God and she would have retribution. If it cost him the one he loved, if it took his heart, so be it.

There would always be balance.

The price was paid. And there was no light to be found.


	11. End

It was cold.

Stiles knew it was cold but he couldn’t feel it. The sensation of snow as it crunched under his bare feet, the caress of wind on his skin, it all felt distant.

He wished it was the winter chill that made him feel numb. Nowadays, he barely felt anything.

Stiles sighed as he pressed his carving knife to the snow covered tree trunks. He had to hack at it a few times to get rid of the gathered ice layer. He really hated winter.

It had been a month since the incident.

Stiles didn’t like to think about it.

The Hales had essentially nursed him back to health, forcing him to eat, to not take a knife to his own heart and just _carve_ -

The pain was so intense, there was just no way it wasn’t physical. He just wanted to see, to make sure he still had a heart, because sometimes he thought it lay buried in the forest with the wolf who owned his heart.

Life was…

It just was.

Nothing ever changed except the seasons, the chirping of birds no longer echoing through the forest as fall changed to winter.

Stiles had pressed a knife to his throat once, almost without conscious decision. He hated his voice. He hated that he got it back at the expense of Peter.

He hated the fact that now that he didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to pretend he was okay, his voice was back.

It made it harder to excuse his silence but even with the curse broken, he refused to speak.

His first word had been Peter’s name. His last words were to the wolf he loved.

He wanted to keep it that way. A small part of him was desperately clinging to their last interaction, the memories the only thing he had left. He felt that speaking would sully it, the name he’d screamed and the words that spilled out of him like blood.

Stiles took a deep breath, feeling refreshed as the crisp morning air filled his lungs.

After the fight and his subsequent recovery, he’d poured himself into fortifying the clearing the Hales lived in. He would not allow something like the Argents to happen again.

When Talia had confronted the remaining Argents, they’d been told that they had no idea Kate had planned this. That it was a coup. They hadn’t been lying so Chris and his family were spared.

Kate had already paid the price for Peter’s death. A life for a life. Pursuing revenge from the rest of the Argents would not be justice.

There would always be balance.

Stiles shuddered, though with the revival of his shaman status, he couldn’t feel the cold.

The shaman stepped back, grim satisfaction on his face as he took in the new carvings in the tree.

The treeline was back, as if it had never been uprooted and destroyed. It had taken some coaxing, but Stiles had managed to convince the trees to not take offense to his actions. They’d fixed themselves readily with a little burst of magic from Stiles.

He could see that they were sleepy now, dormant.

With the trees bare, and the branches covered with heavy layers of snow, they almost looked like skeletal versions of their usual leafy selves.

“Stiles.”

He tensed, straightening up. He didn’t turn around.

“Stiles, it’s time for breakfast.” Derek’s voice was soft, almost nervous.

Stiles didn’t bother using his shaman eyes, he knew he would see nothing but waves of guilt coming out of the wolf.

Logically, he knew it wasn’t exactly Derek’s fault. He’d been young, foolish. He was a victim as well. Derek had locked himself in his room for weeks after, and even now it took a lot of effort for him to look the other Hales in the eyes.

The pack didn’t blame him. How could they, when he was the one suffering?

It would take Derek time to remember it wasn’t his fault.

Still, when he remembered how cold Peter had felt as they lowered him into the hole in the ground, when he remembered how much he’d wanted to be buried with the wolf, it was hard not to feel at least a little vindictive.

He forced himself to relax, turning around and giving the wolf a small, empty smile. He nodded and gestured at the marking then moved his index finger and thumb until they were a small distance apart.

“Okay,” Derek said slowly, even as he looked relieved that Stiles was communicating with him. The wolf seemed to understand what Stiles meant with those hand gestures. “Just come in soon. It’s cold. Finish up the carving quickly.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and gestured to his shirtless self. The wolves always seemed to forget that he was no longer weak and cursed. Nature’s elements wouldn’t hurt him.

Derek left soon after, looking back with worried eyes as he trudged through the snow.

Stiles deflated once the wolf was out of sight, shoulders slumped down as he sighed yet again. He ran a tired hand down his face and glanced at the completed mark on the tree.

He hadn’t exactly been truthful with Derek, but he didn’t want the wolf to look any sadder.

He did need a little bit of time.

Stiles put the carving knife back into its sheath, the covering attached to a belt on his hip.

He faced the forest, quiet.

With hesitant steps, he walked forward. Every step took him closer to the place where the battle took place, to the small copse of trees that surrounded the grave. They had buried Peter where he’d died.

There was no path, but he’d walked this route enough to know it by heart. The trees reached out to him, their branches scratchy as they tried to comfort him in their own way.

He absentmindedly touched the trees as he passed, leaving what he knew was a scent mark and a thanks to the nature that cared for him.

Finally, he was there.

The small clearing was quiet, even the sound of the wind whistling through the trees seemed to be muffled by his grief.

He sunk to his knees in front of the grave. There was no marker or stone to indicate the grave. The wolves did not have the same traditions as humans. Instead, they believed in returning to nature after death, a beautiful practice that Stiles had respected.

They would bury the wolf where they died, planting flowers around the grave to bring back peace and light to a place that was drenched in pain and death.

The only indication of a werewolf’s grave were the carefully cultivated wolfsbane flowers planted in a small patch on top of it.

And so Stiles kneeled, eyes distant as he stared at the purple buds. They were probably magical, seeing as they never died or changed.

He didn’t say anything.

Peter was gone, and no words would bring him back. He’d tried, desperately in the beginning. Spending days and nights kneeling at the grave as he prayed to the Goddess for mercy. He’d prayed until he started cursing her name. Yet nothing ever happened. He almost wished she would kill him, take him just as she had taken his love.

Now everything wasn’t better, just…quiet. Numb.

He knew he was probably dissociating but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He broke out of his thoughts when he felt the trees whisper loudly, an excited shift to them.

Stiles tilted his head to the side, his eyes glowing as he saw the trail of intentions flowing like a river in the air. It was bright red and yellow, something light yet panicked. It was a mix of auras but they were alarmingly familiar. They were approaching fast and definitely running from something.

He only had a moment to get back to his feet when suddenly a woman tumbled into the clearing. She was quickly followed by a young man with floppy hair and an older male with tired stress lines.

And… _oh_. He knew them. He never thought he’d see them again.

He stumbled forward, legs unsteady as he was quickly dragged away by Scott, the three of them still trying to run. He dug his feet in, too startled to do anything else, eyes wide.

“Stiles you’re alive!” It was a shout of surprised happiness, the young man’s eyes sparkling with something that looked suspiciously like tears. Stiles didn’t need to check to know there were tears flowing down his cheeks as well.

His father pulled him into a fierce hug, his scraggly beard scratching Stiles neck.

Before he could respond in any way, two men also crashed through the trees, wielding weapons. Stiles eyes narrowed. Those were the same two that had left him for dead, many moons ago.

They seemed shocked to see him alive and without his mask. They recovered quickly and moved to attack. One of them raised his arm above his head, intending to throw the knife he had. Almost comically, his attack was stopped by the trees, their branches tangling with his arm and trapping him.

The other man had similar issues, roots coming up to wrap around his body and render him immobile.

If Stiles could feel anything but coldness, he would be furious. Instead, he walked up to them slowly, his steps measured.

Their faces expressed disgust, yet their auras exuded nothing but terror.

Stiles grinned, his mouth wide as he tilted his head to the side. He could tell it unnerved them and it made him want to _hurt_ something. It was so tempting. Maybe, by taking two lives he would be able to bring Peter back.

It wasn’t the first time he’d considered that option.

“Stiles, wait.”

The words stopped him and he paused, looking down at the hand now clutching his arm. Scott was staring at him with scared eyes, the look in them similar to the last time he’d seen him. When Scott realized how far he’d go to save his life.

Stiles forced himself to relax then, letting out a huff of exasperation.

He rolled his eyes and turned back to the men. He pointed at himself and his family, then pointed to them and shook his finger side to side in a no-no gesture.

They opened their mouths as if to say something and Stiles frowned in disapproval, the branches moving to cover their mouths.

Scott gave Stiles a weird look but stepped forward, whispering something that made them pale and nod frantically. Satisfied, and looking a bit too angelic for it to be unintentional, Scott asked Stiles to free them and said they wouldn’t bother them again.

Stiles raised a brow at that but shrugged, letting the men go and watching perplexed as they ran away.

Scott smiled beatifically at his questioning look and Stiles laughed, throwing his head back. Scott was sometimes just a little bit conniving and it always amused him that other people saw the man as a giant puppy.

He stopped abruptly, realizing that he hadn’t laughed like this since…well, since Peter died.

He sobered up quickly at that and when Scott looked at him with concern, he just shot the man a weak smile and a dismissive hand wave.

“Stiles, you look…” Melissa had stepped closer, her hand hovering for a moment. He knew that he didn’t look well. He probably looked a bit gaunt, his expression one traumatic event from falling apart. She pulled him into a hug and he sighed, burying his face into her shoulder.

Melissa would never replace the memories he had with his mom, but she was a kind individual and Stiles kind of saw her as a mother figure.

He pulled his head back and met his father’s eyes over Melissa’s shoulder. He ended the hug with a few more gentle pats and practically ran into his father’s arms.

John let out a hearty ‘oof’ as Stiles collided with him, clutching him close. He let out a watery chuckle and they spent a few moments, father and son, just enjoying the reunion.

“Are you okay son?” John pulled back to look him over, his eyes taking in Stiles’ visible ribs and pale skin. “You haven’t spoken since we met.”

Stiles shook his head, lips pressed into a grim line. He didn’t want to explain it. He didn’t want to point his father to the nearby grave, and tell him without words that his wolf and his love laid dead beneath them. He couldn’t do it.

And so he let out a wan smile and made a gesture as if to say later. John let it go after a few tense moments, hating the haunted look in his son’s eyes. Stiles was different now, more serious and tired, as if he’d faced the world and came out of it battered and bruised.

Stiles gestured for them to follow and led them to the Hales. Hopefully they would be just as welcoming to his family. He smiled, a small bloom of hope in his chest. His family was about to meet what was essentially his new adopted family.

He ignored the sharp sting in his heart, reminding him that the one person he considered his home wasn’t here anymore.

Stiles had worried for nothing. After the initial awkwardness and mandatory interrogation, the Stilinskis, McCalls, and Hales got along swimmingly. The three new members had fit right in.

They opted to move into one of the new cabins together. Still too nervous to separate for longer than a few hours. They had explained to Stiles that they had tried to stage a coup in the village, to demand an explanation for Stiles’ sudden disappearance.

Apparently most of the villagers were unaware that the village elders had ordered Stiles to be executed. The shaman felt slightly bad for believing the entire village was involved in his death sentence. It was only after they found out what had happened to Stiles that they had tried to demand justice. In doing so, the elders had ordered any supporters be cast out of the village.

They had scattered, all heading in different directions as they ran from the village guards that used to protect them.

It was pure luck (or maybe the Goddess’ blessing, a small part of him whispered) that had led his family to him. They’d been running randomly, just trying to get far away from the guards who treated it like a cruel hunting game. They’d only been ordered to chase them out, but obviously the guards had more malicious intentions.

They didn’t talk about it, but Stiles knew that the Hales had pulled his family aside and told them with quiet whispers what had happened. They didn’t question why he was still mute even though the curse was broken. They didn’t force him to speak and for that he was grateful. His family supported him without question.

Scott had only asked once, voice timid, if Stiles wanted to talk about Peter. The shaman’s reaction had been carefully controlled, a single shake of his head. His hands were unsteady afterwards, his breathing harsh and on the verge of a breakdown. They knew better than to ask him about Peter now.

Despite everything, it was a timely reunion, something he didn’t realize he had needed. It made him feel less alone. The Hales were amazing people and even better friends but he had wanted familiarity, family. Now, whenever he performed his shaman duties and sat for hours making various charms, Scott would be there to talk his ear off.

When he renewed the carvings in the treeline, his father would help him.

Melissa was the newly appointed Hale healer, and though the wolves didn’t have much need of a healer, the human members greatly appreciated it. Stiles in particular was almost always being shadowed by her. He tended to be more clumsy now and paid less attention to his surroundings. He’d tried to excuse it on his exhaustion, but in truth, he just couldn’t bring up the energy to take care of himself.

She seemed to suspect that if given the chance to stumble into a knife, he’d let it happen.

Stiles didn’t let her know just how close to the truth that was, his reckless actions barely contained now so that he wouldn’t worry them too much.

She was also the one to force him to eat more, a duty that the Hales took very seriously as well. The teenagers would pop up randomly sometimes while he was working and whine at him until he stood up and ate with them. He’d never snacked this much in his life. He knew it was a wolf thing, the urge to care for an injured pack member too strong to resist.

It warmed his heart to know that the Hales cared for him. Yet at the same time, his injuries were not physical, and only time could heal those wounds.

And time did pass.

Slowly the frost melted, leaving behind thinner layers of snow. The trees were still bare, but Stiles could feel the anticipation in the air, the barely there buds hidden within the depths of the bark.

Time passed and his memories of Peter felt more like a dream than reality. Every night he went to bed, alone in their cabin. Every day he woke up reaching for a warm body that wasn’t there anymore.

It hurt and he could only hope with time, it would hurt a little less.

It was a night like any other except for the fact that it was a full moon. This would be the first full moon since before the battle.

Stiles went to bed, rubbing self consciously at the tattoos on his collarbone. Not many people knew what the tattoos were for or what they represented. Shamans kept it a secret closer to their hearts, never letting another soul know.

Every shaman had a row of moons tattooed into their skin, though only one of the phases of the moon were in red while the rest were in black.

It is said that the one in red was made with a special ink, blessed by the blood of the Goddess herself. The shamans didn’t get to choose which moon became red, instead, it was up to the Goddess to choose.

Stiles had always had a closer affinity with wolves due to his reddened full moon tattoo. In truth, the tattoos showed which creatures the shaman was more closely associated with, and also when they were most powerful.

It was a closely guarded secret because they didn’t want anyone to know when they were at their strongest and weakest.

The opposite was true after all. If he was strongest during the full moon, his magic was diminished to practically nothing during the new moon.

There was always a balance.

Tonight was a full moon and he could hear the Hales howling as they ran. They had invited him to join them but he couldn’t do it. The pull of the moon made him feel sick. He didn’t want to be connected to the Goddess anymore, he didn’t want to see her.

He just wanted Peter back.

He laid there for a few moments, trying desperately to fall asleep even as his red tattoo glowed in languish pulses. It urged him to celebrate, to play with the moon and to use his magic. He gritted his teeth and resisted it.

Maybe it was because of his heightened magic, maybe it was because something in him was always attuned to the forest, but he felt the tickle of something foreign in the forest.

It felt warm, like a living heart beat.

Stiles eyes shot open, panting as he flew out of bed and pulled on nothing but a pair of trousers. He stumbled outside and ran straight for the forest, ignoring the Hales’ shouts of confusion. When they tried to follow him, he threw his arms out and took advantage of his large well of magic to section off the forest. The trees groaned as they followed his command, gently caging and preventing the Hales from following him.

Something was wrong. It was growing, spreading like a disease in the forest.

He’d be damned if he lost another Hale because of his own incompetence. He would face this new enemy on his own.

And if a part of him hoped that he wouldn’t survive the encounter, well no one would know except for the Goddess.

Stiles noticed, curiously as he headed towards the area he’d felt the energy burst, that the trees were increasingly green. They were all in full bloom, branches heavy with leaves as if it was spring already. The trees rustled happily, alive and well.

He approached cautiously, even as he knew fighting alone was a death sentence. He would at least take down this threat, before leaving the physical plane to hopefully join Peter.

Stiles lips pulled back into a snarl, an expression that wouldn’t look out of place on an actual wolf. The pulses of energy were coming from the small clearing where Peter was buried.

He cursed in his head, anger welling up in him as he gave up all pretense of stealth and stomped into the clearing. There would be hell to pay if someone had disturbed his wolf’s grave.

When he broke through the trees, he reared back in surprise, his mouth dropping open in awe.

A gigantic tree had grown right on top of Peter’s grave, the branches spreading wide and proud. It seemed to rustle in greeting, the roots tangling with his feet excitedly. Stiles frowned and shook his feet, trying to get away.

The tree seemed contrite when he pulled out his carving knife, the roots quickly retreating back into the ground.

It sat there patiently as he approached. He circled around the tree a few times, eyeing it with his knife raised as he tried to figure out whether or not it was malicious.

The tree looked familiar, the shape of it an echo of memory.

Stiles stood back and squinted for a moment before his eyes widened in recognition. Just as he was trying to figure out what this meant, a voice called out to him from the branches above.

The shaman jumped back, startled and heart pounding.

“Miss me, baby boy?”

The voice was everything that haunted him and Stiles couldn’t help the way his face fell slack as he looked up and saw Peter sitting in the branches. The wolf was naked, the only thing on him the necklace that now had a glowing blue stone cradled in the branches. It flared with light, where before it would only have weak pulses. Now, it looked like it held a star itself within its core.

But that wasn’t possible. This had to be a trick. Peter was dead, gone.

Stiles let out a broken sob, a shaking hand pressing against his mouth as he tried desperately to pull himself together. This couldn’t be real.

His shaman eyes flared to life, and he turned his watery gaze to the impostor. It would show him his aura and he would know for sure if whatever it was, was real. A part of him wanted to give up, just take this Peter whether he be real or fake. Give in to temptation and let this Peter look-alike do what he wanted with him.

Still, it would be disrespecting the wolf he loved. That was the only reason why he gathered up the courage to face this head on. It would hurt, but there was no way he could accept this fake Peter.

He blinked a few times, letting the tears fall down his cheeks as Peter’s aura flowed over him.

It was the same as it was before. It was warm, the glow of it blue but now with hints of green. It felt real, it felt like home.

Oh Goddess, this was his wolf.

Stiles stumbled forward. He would have collapsed onto his knees if Peter hadn’t jumped down quickly and caught him in his arms.

“Peter?” He whispered, the grief and hope warring for control over his voice. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, but most of all, he just wished desperately that this was real.

“I’m here,” Peter breathed out, his voice choked up. The wolf always knew what to say, what to do, in order to make Stiles feel like he was splintering into pieces. He always put him back together stronger than before.

And Stiles-

He was finally home.


	12. Epilogue

“Peter!” Stiles called out, his hands pressing against the trees as he passed. Suddenly, he broke through the dense forest, the now familiar sight of the giant magical tree in front of him.

Stiles pouted, though he couldn’t help the happy smile that lit his face as he ran into Peter’s arms. The man smelled good, like the forest and all things that reminded him of home. He buried his face deeper into Peter’s neck, loving the fact that now he didn’t have the stupid mask in the way.

He pulled back, kissing the gentle smile off of Peter’s face. It was enthusiastic. Kissing Peter was something Stiles would never get tired of. Back when he was cursed, he had lamented the fact that they could never kiss. Now, he took advantage of it as much as he could. It lead to some very annoyed glares from the Hales and varying degrees of amusement from his family.

When he’d found Peter, miraculously alive and well, he’d immediately tried to drag Peter back to the Hales. It was instinctual. He was panicked and disoriented. The first thing he wanted to do was ensure Peter’s safety.

The wolf hadn’t resisted, moving with Stiles as they ran through the forest, the trees parting for them and allowing the Hales to see. They were wary at first, but once they realized that Peter was real, they had joyously brought him back into the pack as if he’d never left.

It was a day of heightened emotions, both of celebration and tears.

Stiles had clung to Peter in a daze, never letting the wolf out of his sight. Peter didn’t seem to mind, letting out soothing rumbles whenever Stiles looked particularly overwhelmed. The shaman was still trying to process everything.

It felt like a dream.

Talia had pulled them into the study, happy her brother was alive but also as the alpha, she needed an explanation. Stiles had refused to be left behind so it had just been the three of them, secluded in the study.

She regarded Peter with suspiciously moist eyes, her breathing shaky as she tried to focus.

“Care to tell us how you managed to survive?”

_We watched you die. We buried you and mourned you._

The words went unsaid but it lingered in the air around them, tense.

“What does it matter?” Stiles retorted, before Peter could answer. He had a tight grip on Peter’s arm, afraid the man would disappear at any moment. He didn’t want to question it. He didn’t want to try and dissect why or how Peter survived. He felt unsettled and honestly he could care less about the details.

Talia met his eyes, her gaze hard yet not unkind.

“We need to understand how or why he’s alive. It might affect the whole pack.”

Stiles wanted to argue but held his tongue when Peter gently removed his hands from the wolf’s arm.

Peter leaned forward and lifted up the necklace, just enough so that it brought Talia’s attention to it. It was beautiful, the blue stone shining bright in the dimly lit study.

“I suspect this object had a part in my revival.” Peter paused, taking a deep breath and shifting through the emotions he could sense. Stiles was shocked but subdued, his emotions conflicted. Mostly, the shaman was relieved that the necklace had ended up helping them in the end. “Although revival is not…exactly the correct term.”

Stiles tensed, his muscles locking up as he tried to keep breathing.

“Wh-what do you mean? Are you going to leave again?” Stiles let out a whine, his hands flying up to grasp his hair as his mind slowly spiraled. He had just reunited with Peter, he couldn’t lose him again.

“No, Stiles breathe. Come on.” The wolf soothed as he dropped to his knees in front of Stiles chair, clasping those thin fingers in his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you said-“ Stiles gasped as he slowly calmed down, tears in his eyes. He held Peter’s hands tightly, too scared to control the slight tremor in his grip.

“I’m not dead. But I’m not alive either.” Peter stood back up, sighing with an age old weariness as he sunk into his seat. “The necklace was a vessel. A powerful spell and entity that needed the right catalyst to activate. Turns out, all it needed was a bit of shaman magic and a soul.”

A memory trickled through Stiles brain then, a feeling of dawning realization as he remembered the way the necklace had started acting weird after he’d released his blood magic into the forest. The magic had traveled through the forest and it seemed it had not only activated the barrier but also the spell within the necklace. It must have been biding it’s time, waiting until the day Peter’s soul met it.

Talia leaned forward, alarm crossing her face.

“Your soul?” Her eyes flickered alpha red as she stared at the necklace, realization dawning on her face. “So that glow is…”

“Yes.” Peter nodded, lips pressed into a grim line as he gently touched the stone. “This contains my soul.”

Peter put up a hand, stopping them from saying anything else and requesting they let him continue his explanation.

“The tree, this necklace, is alive. It spoke to me, when I-“ Peter paused, looking down at the hands folded in his lap. He didn’t need to look up to see the anguish in Stiles face and the pain in Talia’s. “When I died. The shaman who owned it created this sentient and intricate spell work using the last remaining piece of an ancient, god-like species. To us, they look like normal trees. Maybe bigger than normal, but still a tree.”

Peter looked up, something like awe in his voice as his eyes lit up in excitement. He’d had the opportunity to experience a connection to something far outside of reality, and it fascinated him. Of course, in order for it to have worked, he had to die but he thought it was well worth it. Perhaps it wasn’t worth the pain it caused his family and Stiles, but it was still necessary.

“They are called…” He paused as he brought up the word that the tree had whispered to him, in a language older than even the shaman language. “Nemeton. They are neutral, not good nor bad. Instead, they are meant to bring balance to places. If there is too much life, it will destroy. If there is too much pain, it will give life.”

“That sounds dangerous.” Talia finally breathed out, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. What Peter was saying seemed implausible, yet here the wolf was.

“They can be. But with the amount of death on this land, and all the wolves who died at the hunter’s hands, it will bring balance by creating more life.” Peter agreed, his voice measured and careful. “This Nemeton was weak, barely clinging on to its existence. It offered me a deal.”

“And you took it?” Stiles asked, his voice tired as he stared at the wolf with conflicted eyes.

“I would have taken any deal to come back to you.” Peter whispered, his hand cupping Stiles’ cheek in a gentle caress. He turned back to Talia, dropping his hand down and holding Stiles’ hand tightly. “The deal was simple. The Nemeton is parasitic. It would attach itself to my soul and I would essentially be bound to the Nemeton in return. They wield extraordinary amounts of power.”

He glanced at the shaman out of the corner of his eye. He knew Stiles was worried, but the shaman was also exceedingly curious.

“I’m sure you’ve felt it, the ley lines that cover the land are the leftover roots of Nemetons in the past.”

“Oh…” Stiles said slowly, something like astonishment crossing his face, his mouth dropping open. He remembered when he used blood magic, how it would spread through the land using those lines that looked like veins. Even his normal shaman magic relied on those ley lines. They were considered neutral, a power source that only few could access and most of them were shamans. It connected them to the land, and gave them the powers they had. “That’s amazing. You’re saying that all my powers, the magic I draw from the land is all from these Nemetons?”

Peter nodded, proud that Stiles was following his explanation easily.

Peter took a deep breath, hoping that they would react well to this next bit of news.

“In short, I was born again as the Nemeton.”

There was a pause, Stiles’ hand seemed to clench and unclench subconsciously a few times. Talia, for her part stared unblinking at Peter, the only indication of her unsettled nerves in her scent.

Finally, Talia spoke. “Will you be a danger to us?”

“No.” Peter replied fiercely. The wolf leaned forward, his eyes still that same beta blue. “I swear on my life that the pack is still a part of me. I’m just…a little more magical now and bound to the rules of balance. I have more responsibilities, mainly to take care of the land and to keep the same ratio of life and death in this area. But I will never lay a hand on the pack.”

Peter leaned back, sighing as he ran his free hand down his face.

“And well…you can hold me to that promise because I’m essentially immortal now. As long as the Nemeton lives, I will live.”

Stiles tuned out of the conversation after that, his mind distant and numb as they finished up the interrogation. Talia had given her brother a fierce hug, rubbing her face against his in a desperate attempt to scent mark.

Peter had noticed Stiles silence as the shaman led them back to their cabin. The wolf was excited to be with the shaman again, especially now that he could stare at his face to his heart’s content. Stiles was familiar to him yet a stranger at the same time. He still had those same beautiful, fiery gold eyes. Yet, even without the mask, Stiles seemed reluctant to talk.

Honestly, the shaman had communicated more with Peter back when he’d been masked and mute.

It worried him, leaving him tense as he stepped into their cabin. Breathing in deep, he frowned at the scent of grief that permeated every surface. There was not a hint of his scent left. He went about rectifying that, touching everything he could and leaving his scent with a satisfied hum.

Stiles was standing in their living room back turned to him and shoulders hunched. There was a tremor to his form, as if he was barely holding back tears.

Peter felt his heart breaking, knowing that Stiles had suffered more than anyone after his death. He approached cautiously, a hand pressing gently to the dip in between Stiles’ shoulder blades that he adored so much.

The shaman turned around, too fast for Peter to react. He barely registered the sudden pain in his back as he was slammed into the floor, thankful for the rug in front of their small fireplace that cushioned his fall.

He groaned, hands tangling into Stiles hair as the shaman kissed him passionately, as if he wanted to consume him whole. There was a hunger and desperation to Stiles’ movements that worried Peter and though the wolf greatly enjoyed what was essentially their first kiss, he gentled it with slow nips and languish licks. Stiles whimpered brokenly into his mouth and pulled away, burying his face in Peter’s neck.

A sob broke out of the shaman and Peter felt his own eyes sting with tears.

Peter carefully pushed his fingers through Stiles hair, petting the shaman until his tears stopped, slight hiccups the only indication of his emotional state.

“Feeling better?” Peter hummed a soft tune, gently tangling his fingers in the shaman’s messy hair and pulling until Stiles could meet his eyes.

Stiles swallowed loudly, his expression dark with something that made Peter feel _owned_.

“If you leave me again, I will kill you myself.”

Peter didn’t hear a single lie in that statement and he blinked a few times in surprise. A grin broke out on his face and he surged up, biting and sucking a harsh mark onto the shaman’s neck.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

A noise broke out of Stiles then, full of want and desire. They let the tidal wave of emotions take over, again and again, until they felt a little less lost.

It was warm.

Spring had arrived and the forest was alive with color, the animals more abundant than usual with the influence of the Nemeton.

After the initial barrage of questions, Peter was largely left alone and treated the same as usual. Derek had avoided him the first few days out of guilt, but after Peter had cornered him and forced him to talk, they had reached an understanding. He never blamed Derek for the whole incident, seeing Derek so melancholy and almost listless made him wish he’d been the one to sink his claws into Kate.

He’d also met Stiles’ family, an encounter that he refused to admit slightly intimidated him. They had accepted him easily enough, though Stiles’ father seemed wary but resigned that he wasn’t going to go anywhere.

The only thing that changed was his connection to Stiles.

The shaman was full of life nowadays, the darker days far and in between as he laughed with his family and basked in Peter’s love.

It was as if a dam had broke, after Peter’s return. Stiles was talkative, a trait only further emphasized by the silence Peter was used to. He didn’t mind it. In fact, he _loved_ it.

He loved the way Stiles was a bit of a spitfire, sharp with his retorts and scathing with his comebacks. They kept up with each other easily enough, something that left Peter constantly amused and with a warm feeling in his chest.

His little shaman was also really stubborn.

The topic of his immortality and general invulnerability came up several times in their conversations, though most days it left both of them frustrated. Stiles was determined not to leave Peter behind. He had argued that he knew exactly how it felt to lose his mate, and he didn’t want Peter to experience that same despair.

Still, it wasn’t like Peter could suddenly become mortal again.

That’s why, late one night, with the moon hanging full above the forest, Peter wasn’t the least bit surprised to wake up to an empty bed. There was something throbbing in his chest, the sensation of _more_ and too much taking hold of him. He stumbled out of bed, following the pull of the Nemeton and the triumph he could taste on his tongue.

It was late and all the Hales had tired themselves out already, running through the forest.

He was glad. He didn’t want them witnessing this and asking questions even he didn’t know the answer to. Though, he had an inkling of what Stiles had done.

He broke through the trees, the Nemeton towering above the forest. Stiles was standing with a hand touching the Nemeton’s trunk. He seemed to be glowing under the moonlight, and a part of Peter knew it was probably closer to the truth than he was comfortable with.

Stiles turned around and his eyes flared a brilliant white before fading to his normal amber brown. He was smiling wide, something in him seemed to be at peace, as if he’d achieved what he’d come here for.

Peter could feel everything Stiles felt, and that was the first sign that Stiles had truly crossed a line.

“Stiles.” Peter was conflicted, stepping up to the man and holding him by his shoulders. “What did you do?”

He searched Stiles eyes but saw nothing but love. The shaman had no regrets.

Stiles sighed as he pressed close, laying a hand on Peter’s chest, right above his heart.

“I gave myself to the Nemeton. In exchange for a connection with it, I will become the guardian of the Nemeton. I will protect you.” Stiles carefully touched a hand to the necklace, the stone now a constant changing swirl of blue and gold. “Now, we are both tied to it.”

“Stiles.” Peter’s voice broke, a snarl coming out of him as he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they were a beautiful blue. “You absolute idiot. You gave up your mortality for this?” The wolf gestured to himself, something disbelieving in his voice.

“It’s not worth it. You’ll be stuck with me forever, and honey, I’m fun for one lifetime but eternity is a long time. Eventually you’ll regret it.”

_And then you’ll leave me._

Death was familiar. It was something everyone experienced. Yes, it would hurt when Stiles eventually died and left him. But at the very least, it would hurt less than the shaman voluntarily deciding he’d had enough of the wolf and leaving.

He could handle an eternity of loneliness, as long as he had memories of Stiles loving him until the very end.

Peter’s throat was clogged up with his emotions, and he stared into Stiles’ eyes, trying to get him to understand.

“It’s not worth it.”

Stiles pushed Peter away from him, his teeth bared as he spit out his words.

“You don’t get to decide your own worth.” Stiles paused, taking a deep breath, his voice wavering. He glanced to the side for a moment, his teeth biting into his bottom lip as he remembered. “You told me that I got to decide what I deserved. And what I deserve is an eternity with you. This is what I want, don’t cheapen it with your insecurities.”

Peter felt as if he’d been slapped. He was proud of Stiles’ conviction, the shaman had a tenacity and determination to him that Peter could never get enough of. It always shocked him, how easily Stiles could see through to the darkest parts of him.

“So, what you’re saying is that…we’ll be together? I won’t lose you?” Peter felt something dark in him rear its head, his possessiveness and tentative hope. It was perhaps selfish of him. After all, immortality wasn’t all it was cut out to be.

But maybe together it would be a little less lonely.

Stiles was somber as he pressed his hand to Peter’s chest. The wolf raised his as well, pressing it to Stiles’ chest, the steady thud of the shaman’s heart calming.

Stiles leaned up and kissed the wolf, a promise in it, and a whisper of love.

“You are my beginning, and you will be my end.”

And Peter breathed out familiar words, echoes of memories-

_Until the very end._

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed it!! :) As mentioned in the beginning, please do check out the art [here](http://bisexualsteveistheonlysteve.tumblr.com/post/174881517145/its-steterreversebang-time-motherfkers-i-was) and reblog it! My artist worked hard on it <3
> 
> Some tidbits and behind the scenes of this story:
> 
> 1\. Now that Stiles and Peter are essentially immortal I have a headcanon of Stiles walking to the Nemeton/Peter and Peter asking him how his day went. Stiles talks about how he's been going to high school and he ran into Scott in the forest where he'd lost his inhaler (of course Stiles finds it and returns it to him). It's modern day and Stiles chose to go to high school so he could stay close to the reincarnated Hales and his friends. They keep tabs on their family members this way. They are still stupidly in love and snarky even decades later.
> 
> 2\. If you guys noticed, the chapter titles spell out Stiles' last words to Peter! A vow and a declaration of intent. 
> 
> 3\. I have to say that Peter and Stiles never explicitly said "I love you" to each other in the fic. It just ended up that way because the characters themselves showed their love through actions and other words such as "We'll be together. Until the very end." The only time one of them ever tries to say I love you is when Peter tries to say it right before he dies (he doesn't succeed of course) but yeah I thought that was a nice little thing the characters did. I didn't mean for it to turn out like that...it just did...I suspect it's because Stiles and Peter are dramatic babes xD
> 
> I would deeply appreciate any comments or kudos you lovely readers wish to give me. It helps feed my empty soul ;) If you would like to see more Steter from me, do let me know. This is my first time writing them so I'm super nervous haha I'd love to hear what you guys think. I have to confess my only knowledge of them is from fics and the 2 seasons I watched of teen wolf. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can find my tumblr [Here](http://lunastories.tumblr.com/). Feel free to drop by and say hi! I now have a [Ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/N4N2D8R8) and if you kind readers want to, you guys can buy me a drink/tip me here xD Thanks again for reading!


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